


We Hold These Truths

by otakuashels, Shuriken7



Series: A Collision of Worlds [3]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Drama, Drama & Romance, Historical, Historical Hetalia, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Romance, Slow Burn, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2017-05-22
Packaged: 2018-07-10 21:39:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 102,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7009135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/otakuashels/pseuds/otakuashels, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shuriken7/pseuds/Shuriken7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The second book in the Collision of Worlds series covering America and England's history together. It is suggested that you read the stories in order, as our stories are based in historical events not all of which have been depicted in Hetalia's canon.</p><p>We hold these truths to be self evident...</p><p>After the ups and downs of building a New World, they are at a crossroads. Not sure where they stand as the Enlightenment sweeps across European thinking and colonists declare they have the rights of full citizens. Ideas tear at the very fabric of their relationships, bringing them into war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_April 1774_

_London, England_

England rubbed at his temple, reading scrawled handwriting across the parchment. Across the sheets of tan colored paper were a series of five acts. His government had been working on them for days, fast and fueled by anger were the members of his parliament. Not that he could blame a single soul. He found his own temper heated sufficiently, quills snapping between grasping fingers, death biting into sea chapped lips. The bloody Boston tea party...what was America thinking! As if those colonial citizens could pull such an offensive act and get away with it. It was like a child who stuck their hand in the sweets jar and thought they would get away with it with no repercussions. America would have to learn like the a child. You do something that is against the rules and you have to suffer the consequences. Massachusetts and the Bostonians were going to have to learn the hard way it seemed. 

Leaning back against the straight back of his chair he found himself entranced by the dancing flame of the candle. He briefly found himself tripping into memories of his experiences in the Indian subcontinent. Some of those women he had seen, exotic in dance and dress. Hips swinging side to side in the most inappropriate yet mesmerizing ways. Side to side like the sway of the candle flame. Blinking rapidly England brought his attention back to the task at hand. Those colonists had dumped 342 crates of tea in the Boston Harbor. Did they think he was fool enough to believe their savage disguise. These ‘Sons of Liberty’ assaulted three of his ships. Bloody bastards.

It was because of this that these four acts were to be passed. He thumbed through the papers with disdain. 

First was the Boston Port act. This act would close off all actions of the port until Boston paid back all of the damages. 

Second was the Massachusetts Government Act.  Which did not allow democratic meetings and put the governor councils in charge of political matters.

Third was the Administration of Justice Act. As a result of the colonials illegal actions all British officials were now immune to criminal prosecution. 

Fourth was the Quartering Act, this would require the colonists to house the British troops without notice.

Fifth was the Quebec Act then was to allow Catholics the freedom of worship inside of Canada and the continuation of their personal judicial system.

England was aware that this was a personal sting to the massive amounts of protestants in the colonials. But the vindictive part of him was pleased with the situation. He hoped quietly that the act would split Boston and New England off from the other colonies, crushing any hopes of complete unified actions of rebellion. He was quite aware it would infuriate the colonists and probably make America upset with him in return but...he could not let a disobedient child get away with things just because he had a soft spot for the boy.

Running his hands in discomfort along the seams of his trousers England sighed. It was unpleasant, but raising a child was certainly a trial in itself.  It would do no good for either of them for discipline to be pushed to the wayside. The good book stated that. He remembered it clearly. Proverbs 13:24 stated “He that spareth his rod hateth his son: but he that loveth him chasteneth him betimes.”

Yes, It was something that he had to do as a big brother. As a role model. England repeated such words to himself until the pain in his heart turned to what he deemed compassion. He was not hurting America merely for the sake of power, not entirely. He was doing this for the boys own sake. To help prevent future pains and punishments, in prevention of further mistakes. It was the thing to do. He assured him as he lifted the quill, dipping it into the well and began to sign his own name 

_Hear me, America… I don’t want to hurt you… but I will do what I have to do._

 

***

 

_May 1774_

_Paris, France_

England found himself staring up into the darkness, where he knew a red canopy hung above the bed. Paris, it was a discomfort for him to be here. However, it had been important for him to come. King Louis XVI was a man of great power that he had yet to make personal exchanges with.  The French king had yet to be coronated, but it would do England well to meet him prior, or so parliament had told him. France made a point to avoid him at all functions, a refreshing, albeit strange turn of events.

The young man, (all men were young in comparison to countries of course) seemed to have a fire. Over goblets sloshing of wine and a belly full of food Louis had spoken about reformation. About the push of enlightenment ideals. He asked England of his own opinions regarding taille (taxation of peasants), serfdom and such things. 

He played the part of a mere curious young monarch immensely well England had to admit as sleep slowly touch his mind.  Curiosity was a prized trait to own, as long as it did not get one into trouble. Allowing a large yawn to escape, England finally allowed slumber to have its way. Thoughts trickling into a thick pool of unconscious. The young king had curiosity and fervor which was of little interest to England personally. As long as it stayed within French borders. If the king wished to touch things that were not his, that he belonged to England he would learn quickly the taste of blade and drýcræft. 

 

***

 

_September 1774_

_Philadelphia, Colony of Pennsylvania_

_First Continental Congress_

“America, did you hear? The Resolves are going to a vote. You should come back inside.”

America looked up at the speaker, somewhat surprised and delighted to see Patrick Henry. He enjoyed listening to him speak about all the dreams he had for the future, his unrest at the behavior England was showing towards all of them. Although, America had to admit that some of his ideas were a little frightening to contemplate. America had been sitting under a tree in a courtyard nearby Carpenters’ Hall, where the meeting was being held. The fall was progressing around him in the crunch of red and yellow leaves underfoot. They’d been in session for several weeks now and it was nearing October, the crispness of winter beginning to slip into the air. All of the arguments that had come forth in the meeting were making America’s head spin. Men had come from all of the colonies except Georgia. He couldn’t really blame them, there was trouble with the tribes and they needed help. Would his people be able to fight them off on their own? That question made him shift a little, suddenly uncomfortable in his seat on the ground.

“Do you think anything will come of it?”

“You might get to hear the Massachusettsmen take the philosophical high road again.” They smiled at each other. America had to admit he liked their vehemence in defending his rights, but the New Englanders did tend to rub the aristocratic southern men the wrong way. The South Carolinians were particularly vocal about the lack of courtesy and gentlemanly procedure.

America sighed. Henry offered him a hand, “If Britain concedes to the Resolves that are passed you’ll want to have been there when we decide.” America took the hand up and dusted off his clothes. He followed the Virginian back into the hall where another reading of the draft Resolves was underway. America liked its full title, _The Declaration of Colonial Rights,_ and hoped that England would give him a chance.

The letter that had come along with the Intolerable Acts had been as intolerable as the taxes themselves. America had barely read through it before crumpling and tossing it into the fire. He had sent one message back that correspondence could not continue due to the high costs of paper due to the taxation. He had gotten a sort of glib satisfaction at letting him know that just because Parliament had repealed some of the taxes he wasn’t still angry. He wished England would come and talk to him. He would take the yelling, if England was here it would mean that America could at least yell back. It had been over a decade since he’d seen him, not the longest they’d been apart but the most volatile. It was the first time he’d really felt abandoned.

Rights of Englishmen. Rights of self government. All the rights that those across the Atlantic enjoyed. The word subjugation, freedom, law and others swirled.

“From what it sounds like Mr. Adams, is that you advocate for not only asserting our God given rights, but for a break from the Mother Country!”

“I think, Mr. Dickinson, that it is only wise to consider that independence may be the only recourse!” Any reply was caught up in many voices speaking at once. 

_Independence._ The word bounced around in America’s mind. Several times he had stood on the edge of a cliff or near the drop of a waterfall. He wondered what it would feel like if he jumped. The thrill, the fear that he would be hurt would all wash away for a moment between leaving solid ground and meeting the water below. That was what this felt like. Wondering if the water would be deep enough if he jumped.

He glanced around the room. Many of the delegates had left their seats and Mr. Peyton Randolph, the elected President, was trying to restore some sense of order. Sitting quietly a few seats away from him was Mr. Washington. They had exchanged a few words since both arriving in Philadelphia, America being pulled in so many directions by the delegates. America walked the few paces and set his chair next to him.

“Hello Mr. Washington.” America took in that he was wearing his military uniform. He resisted the urge to call him Lieutenant Colonel as he had so many years ago.

“Hello America.” Washington had always been soft spoken and even now America could barely hear him over all the noise.

“Why the uniform?” America had heard that Mr. Washington was on his way to becoming quite the Virginia gentleman. He had married a wealthy widow and been making reasonable money in land speculation. America wondered about the woman he had married. Marriage always made him curious, ever since England had taught him it was a rare institution between nations.

Washington turned to him. America was pleased to realize that his latest growth spurt put him almost eye to eye with the tall man. “For when they make the decision to defend you and if we decide we need to fight for our rights.”

America glanced down at the floor, “Do you think that will happen?”

“What do you think? You know Britain himself better than we do.” America laced his fingers together, considering. England was angry, there was no doubt about that. America was angry too. There had been several incidents where British soldiers had killed his people during protests. He looked up from his hands to see John Adams arguing with several of the Pennsylvanians, his cousin Samuel beside him. America remembered John in the courtroom, arguing for the British soldiers that had killed those men and boys in Boston. Sam had called them murderers, John had proved it was an accident. The judges and jury of Boston had declared the red coats not guilty four years ago. However, England had retaliated by taking America’s ability to try cases of that kind in the colonies and dissolving the Massachusetts Assembly. England had called him a child.

_Do they think us too young, too unprincipled to understand justice?_ John Adams had said those things with the same sense of indignation that America had felt. America had asked and got no word from England at all.

Washington waited patiently as he thought. “I don’t know.” America said, knowing it was the truth, “He’s treated me like a subject for years, instead of the brothers that we are. I can’t predict what he will do, I never expected any of this.”

Washington nodded, “Then I will do what must be done.”

“Thank you.” America could never be sure, but Washington seemed to smile.

Any attempt to restore order was only half successful. America listened for a while, then looked for an opportunity to excuse himself. H wanted to walk down to the docks, perhaps an ocean breeze could clear his head. A recess was called and America slipped out before anyone could come over and speak to him. He pulled his tricorn low over his eyes so no one would be able to tell him from any other tall youth that wandered among the merchants and fishermen. 

He found a relatively quiet stretch of shoreline, some distance from the piers. He could see large ships out in the harbor some flying naval flags and others merchant, many with the Union Jack tall on their masts. _I wonder if nations get to choose their flags… or if we somehow inherit them. Maybe I will know someday._ America had thought to walk down to the beach and sit but found he was too anxious. Staring down at the cliff called independence required walking.

_That was said in a moment of passion… it doesn’t mean they will propose it._ He thought, watching the impressions his feet made on the sand. _You would have to fight England then…_ Washington’s question flew back into the fore of his brain. Would England fight him to put him in his place? Would he, America, stand against him… would he be able to? He didn’t want to need to, that much he was sure. _I want him to hear me._

“America.”

_Hopefully the Resolves will get him to at least pay attention…_

“America!”

_Is there anything I should suggest they add? Should I write a letter to him?_

“America!” Canada’s voice finally penetrated his thoughts and he turned. Canada was following his footsteps down the beach after him. America opened his arms to embrace his twin.

“What brings you here? Aren’t you trying to get the rest of your crops in before the snows come?” America said, deciding it sounded far more diplomatic than asking, ‘what are you doing here?’

Canada pulled back from him, gesturing that they could continue walking. “I didn’t hear from you since that incident last December.”

“Incident? If you are referring to the Boston tea party, I’m not talking about it with you. I’ve already had word about it with England, by letter of course since he’s too busy to come and see me.” He didn’t bother to disguise the bitterness in his voice.

Canada was silent for a moment. “I know. The entirety of his last letter was all about you.”

America turned on his heel to stomp away. He called over his shoulder, “Of course he still writes to you. Telling him everything I do are you? Is that why you came?” Canada grabbed his arm, swinging him around to face him.

“I am _not_ his spy!”

“I’ll remember that.” America replied, sarcastic. Canada flushed with anger, but America cut him off before he could say anything. “Did you really just want to see me?” He was shocked by the sound of hope in his voice.

Canada nodded, “I have a feeling England will tell me not to soon enough… although I probably would come anyway… I think he knows… this assembly you are holding, it isn’t exactly legal…”

“It is and it isn’t.”

“America…”

“I can’t just sit by… he apparently only hears me when I’m shouting.”

“I think you should be careful it doesn’t come to blows.” 

America stared at his brother. “What makes you say that?”

“You. And him.”

“What did he say?”

Canada sighed, “Neither of you have to say anything. I’ve known both of you practically my entire existence. Just… please reconcile with him. If I don’t have to see war again for 100 years I would be most happy.”

“I’ll consider it.” Canada frowned at him. America shrugged. “I said I will consider it and I will. If you really are here to visit me than my conditions are you can’t talk to me about England and you can’t tell him anything you may overhear.”

Canada gave him a wary, considering look. Suspicious shone plainly in his eyes and America knew he wanted to ask exactly what the illegal congress was talking about, but said nothing beyond agreeing.

A few days went by rather companionably, each careful not to speak about politics. Canada seemed happy enough to remain at the house when he went to check on how the talks progressed.

The Congress seemed to move at a snail’s pace, any progress one day undone by an argument the next. America looked greedily through every notice and newspaper he could find for word that was going on elsewhere, if decisions were being made via colonial assembly or armed uprising. He made sure that he never shared any news with Canada, lest it get back to England more directly.

Finally, he decided that he would wait and see how the congress played out… but from afar. Canada headed home in the first week of October and America headed further south, eager to learn if the news of discontent was accurate.

 

***

 

_October 25, 1774_

_Edonton, Colony of North Carolina_

The North Carolinians were holding their own congress. America listened to the discussion for days. There had been trouble here and there, battle lines being drawn, politically at least. A great stir occurred at the arrival of dozens of women, coming to show their support of the boycotts. They presented a document, signed by over fifty women in protest of the taxation on tea and cloth. They were unafraid of England knowing their names, and that made America feel brave.

The letters and other petitions were sealed up and set on a ship to go across the Atlantic and hopefully return with remittance. America was invited to Mrs. Penelope Barker’s home for dinner. He was happy to be in the company of someone who had done something so unprecedented and extraordinary by organizing the local women to support a political stance. The food was simple, evidence that they held to the boycott of all British goods, but heartwarming. It felt good to leave the cold rooms of politics to the warmth of a home. He could, for just a moment, pretend to be human.

He was nearly drifting off on the sofa of the sitting room when Mrs. Barker settled down with her sewing on one of the arm chairs. She had just bid the rest of the guests goodbye and her husband had gone off to bed. America felt further lulled by the quiet methodology of her work. He watched her mend holes in rather worn shirts and breeches, sometimes deeming one or the other a lost cause and using the better bits for patches. The rest was relegated into strips for rags.

“Is it very hard, to hold to the boycotts?”

She stopped, settling the white cloth over her skirts. “Men are not the only ones that can have principles they wish to defend. It is no little thing, but it is just. We women will suffer for it either way, with unlawful taxes or doing without. You are pleased aren’t you? You seemed rather cheerful all day.”

“Spending time with your family has been much more delightful than listening to people quoting philosophers all day.” She laughed. “I was happy to be with you, like being part of a family.”

She gave him a curious look. “Do you not have a family, America?”

“Not the way humans do. Canada is my brother, we look almost exactly alike… and England, I called him brother and he sort of raised me.”

“What does he think of all this? What the King and Parliament have been doing to us, to you?”

“He thinks it is beyond my place to demand anything. He treats me as if I was a little boy… He wasn’t always like that though. I used to be really happy to see him. I’d wait and wait and then he would arrive and everything would change. He’d bring new things and new learning and… I just liked seeing him.”

“It sounds like you love him a great deal.”

Her words surprised him, he’d never thought about it so simply. “Maybe that’s why I am so angry at him.”

“Let us hope that he hears us then, so that families shall not be torn asunder. Yours included, America.” She picked up her mending again and started to work. America watched the fire for some time.

He wanted to hope that everything would be well, he wanted to believe it with all his heart. Yet, the last image he had of England was being commanded to the rear forts, not allowed to share the victory he had helped win. An ally when it was convenient, an expedient to an end. A subject when his usefulness was done, not family, not a brother.

_Hear me, England… I don’t want to hurt you… but I will do what I have to do._

The next morning he was offered a cloth from some of the women. “What is it?”

“A flag. For you.”

He looked at it, red stripes on white cloth and couldn’t think of anything to say.

 


	2. A Shot Heard Around the World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Battle of Lexington and Concord occurs and America realizes there may be no going back. England takes precautions against a rebellious colony.

_April 18, 1775_

_Massachusetts Bay Colony_

_Battle of Lexington and Concord_

“It’s too big a force to be after two men. They must mean to be looking for the supplies at Concord. Too bad for those bloody backs that we’ve hidden it all.” Cautious amusement rose around the group.

America stood a few feet from them, deliberating The goal of the British march had to be that. Not to capture Mr. Adams and Mr. Hancock, but to make sure the militia could not mount any challenge to the harsh regulations Massachusetts was being forced to suffer. America felt like he had on the eve of his first real battle of the French and Indian War. All the possibilities of victory and loss spread out before him.

“We’ll send out an alarm and muster. We need enough men to take on 800 devils come morning light.” America nodded, moving quickly over to where Paul Revere and several other men waited with ready horses. He climbed on the back of his own mount. With few words they all raced along their assigned paths, taking the message into the night.

“The Regulars are coming!” The call was taken up by others and the message spread as other riders joined, a web of news spreading out across the countryside. A few lit fires that could be seen from nearby towns and even a trumpet sounded echoing over the formerly sleeping landscape. 

America rode into Lexington in the early morning. Based on the depth of the night’s darkness it was only three or four a.m. He had ridden into the midst of militiamen mustering, waiting to be the first to meet the British on their march. He joined their ranks, receiving a warm smile and a clap on the shoulder from Captain Parker. Most of the men here were related to Parker in some way, a congeniality spread through the group. Despite the show of armed resistance, no one was planning on a fight, just a statement that those men could carry back to General Howe.

Captain Parker coughed in the darkness, a cloth held to his mouth. A rider was coming up the road. “Best get ready, they are on their way!”

Startled by a hand on his shoulder America turned to look at Parker’s face after watching the rider disappear into the darkness. “Don’t look so worried, lad, they’ll likely march right back to Boston after they don’t find anything.” Another cough cut him off. The sun began to rise and they left the space in the streets and some men out of the taverns towards the Common. America peered down the road, even from this distance, he could see the even lines of British infantry. Once, he’d felt pride of marching with them. The Union Jack carried by the flag bearer would have given him hope. However, right then, it filled him with dread.

His fingers tightened on his musket as some of the column began to swing towards Lexington, the majority still heading down the road to Concord. America glanced around, the militiamen had taken shelter behind hedges and trees. From his own position, America could see a British officer, tall on his horse, come at them with saber drawn.

“Disperse! Lay down your arms, you damned rebels!”

At first no one was sure what to do. America knew that it was not uncommon for the militias to disperse, the statement was more important than action. Several jeers were thrown at the British officer and the men that were arranged behind them. A few men did begin to leave, although they certainly were not leaving their arms. America could hear Captain Parker trying to say something over the noise, but he wasn’t clear through the shouting.

A crack split the air. 

Smoke from the discharge of a rifle floated between the two groups, one scarlet clad and the rest dressed in their usual daily clothes for farming, smithing, or whatever work they turned their hands. The moment hung in the air. The way the air drifted, America couldn’t tell if it had been American or British shot. Although, in the space between heartbeats it no longer mattered.

The air was choked with return fire. A fog descended over his mind and he moved, following the adrenaline of his people going this way and that. Next thing he knew he was back on his horse and following some of the other men towards Concord.

“What happened?” he said, finding his voice again.

A man he didn’t know turned to him, “We’re retreating to Concord where the rest of the militia should be by now. No doubt the Regulars are continuing the march as we speak!” America followed almost blindly, taking up a spot of the ranks in the woods. He could feel it buzzing around him, the feelings of his people. This wasn’t like the war before, everyone’s feeling were heightened. England’s disdain for American troops was now arrayed against him with equal disdain. _We will show our worth._

America took up position, his musket resting in a notch of the tree. Waiting he took assessment. His palms were sweating and his heart pounding in his ears. He wondered if England could have heard that shot, feel that something had changed. His hands tightened on the gun. 

_England is going to be furious,_ he thought.

 

***

 

_May 1775_

_London, England_

“Who the hell do they think that they are fighting against!” England slammed the report down upon his desk angrily. Ignoring the sting in his hand he knocked his chair backwards and stormed from his private study. A walk around the gardens was in order. ‘They are British citizens and they think it is alright if they suddenly decide they don’t want to follow the laws anymore!’ 

His mind remained back with the pages strewn across his oak desk.  Cold hallways of stone changed into cloudy paths surrounded by flowers and trees as he entered one of the gardens. Bows and other such greetings in response to ‘your grace’ that came from ladies walking about the gardens were automatic as his mind remained on the papers. The battle, the bloody battle.

He turned heel sharply, the sunlight suddenly irritating his eyes. A hot cup of tea was in order. A fix to every ailment. Entering back into castle halls forced the blond nation to blink rapidly. He would head straight for the kitchens. To be honest, though a bit ashamed, he had no patience for the time it would take a maid to deliver his drink. Also, he prefered his a certain strength. Better to take care of it himself. Breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth England attempted to focus on facts rather than his emotions.

General Thomas Gage was the current military governor of Massachusetts as well as commander-in-chief of approximately 3,000 British military men in Boston. England had personally pushed for the man to be in charge of the area. He had personal relationships with the man. Frequently, they had shared games of chess in distraction of the French and Indian war. Gage had told him stories of his interactions of men in the colonies. Specifically highlighting his fun with George Washington at the Battle of Monongahela via letter. 

Gage had been sending letters to England personally, which England in turn had discussed with the parliament. Prior to this battle parliament and England, begrudgingly, had presented the King, George III,  with document:

“We ... find that a part of your Majesty' s subjects, in the Province of the Massachusetts Bay, have proceeded so far to resist the authority of the supreme Legislature, that a rebellion at this time actually exists within the said Province; and we see, with the utmost concern, that they have been countenanced and encouraged by unlawful combinations and engagements entered into by your Majesty's subjects in several of the other Colonies, to the injury and oppression of many of their innocent fellow-subjects, resident within the Kingdom of Great Britain, and the rest of your Majesty' s Dominions ....”

Even now, the solidification of such fears left a bitter taste in England’s mouth. Running his tongue over the back of his teeth he cringed. Yes, tea was indeed required. Walking down flights of stairs he peered into the kitchen, seeing several of the kitchen servants moving about in preparation of the evening meal. Hr gave a smile as one of the senior kitchen hands spotted him, a questioning look on her middle aged features. With a small wave of his hand he dismissed any notion that he would need aid. Sometimes the act of preparing himself a cup of tea was half the part of the calming drink in itself. Most of the kitchen acknowledged his presence with a smile and a hello. But nothing further. 

Despite England's love of formality and rank, sometimes sliding through as such was what he needed. And he was in a mood that would not result in pleasant interactions if disturbed. He moved to the jars full of dried tea leaves, stepping onto a step stool to reach the cabinet. Leaning over the thick wooden counter he continued to go over the incident.  April 14th he knew was the day that Gage received instructions that he was disarm the rebels and to bring in any of the leaders. However, on the side, England had sent personal letter to Gage alongside the official order. A request in honour of their friendship. With the movements into Concord he wished Gages soldiers to destroy all rebel military stores and supplies, however he pleaded that the soldiers were to leave the homes and lands of civilians unscathed. He had no wish for more souls to be harmed by the arguments between colonial leaders and their mother country.  

England was pleased when he heard that Gage had conceded to his request. Gage had proceeded with 700 infantry, 350 grenadier and 320 light infantry late at night on April 18th to make their moves.

One, two, three pinches of tea leaves went into the head of the yixing pot. Three pinches to be followed by one long pour of fire heated water.  One. Like one shot. One singular shot that England had been told was from one of the colonial onlookers over the battlefield. It had only taken one shot to start it all. He wondered who the fellow was. The fellow that had fired a shot, officially starting the physical rebellion against his mother country. On the other hand, England heard it may have been one of the officers. He was afraid that he would never know who had fired that fateful shot. A shot that through letter and tongue was being heard around the world. 

Setting the tea to steep England watched as steam curled and stretched its way from the spout of the pot. It seemed unending, just the endless feeling of betrayal and fear that seemed to curl up in his belly and deep inside his chest. Along with a sliver of hope. He had been told that most of the militiamen had fled. It seemed that the rebels had been sure the British troops would not fire ball but merely powder at them. England could imagine the horror of realization dawning upon their faces when they realized the truth. 

Grabbing a cup he placed it upon the counter. With certainty the porcelain clicked against the wood. As certain as he was that the colonials were realizing the foolishness of their actions. They had run, run from their countrymen. Fools. They had been angry at their time out and had decided to throw a tantrum like that of a sullen child. They had been reprimanded. England once again found himself leaning towards familiarity. Justification. 

“Hebrews 12:11 “For the moment all discipline seems painful rather than pleasant, but later it yields the peaceful fruit of righteousness to those who have been trained by it.” he muttered to himself. Again. Again. Again. Sinking it into his mind, like the magic of his soul had sunk into his bones. 

A sip. Too hot. Pain. Lesson learned. Patience.

England found himself nodding to no one but his own consciousness. For then, there was Concord. Right? So much happening. So many emotions and so much data to sort through. Too much. A forced sip. Pain again.

Shaking his head England turned to lean back against the counter. The rebellious child won that one. Anger joined the betrayal which till now had been steeped in sadness. No. not right now. He needed to breathe.

 

***

 

_June 5, 1775_

_Philadelphia, Colony of Pennsylvania_

The creation of the Continental Army came with far less fanfare than America would have expected. The arguments had gone on for some time, along with another decision to send a grievance petition to the Crown. 

When George Washington was suggested as Commander in Chief, America felt it was a prudent choice of the Massachusetts delegates. The Virginian had accepted his commission graciously nodding his head. America watched just a brief flash of hesitation in the turn of his head. Throughout the rest of the debates America watched him, seeing that he lingered on the edge even as men congratulated him on his appointment. America followed John Adams over as he walked to the tall man.

“Congratulations, General Washington.” 

Washington smiled, the slight turning of the lips that passed for one on the reserved man. “Thank you, Mr. Adams, but if I can be frank with you. I do not know if I am equal to the great task laid before me.”

Mr. Adams was at a loss for words and took his leave with a bow of the head that Washington returned. Nation and commander studied each other for a moment. “Do you really think that?” America asked.

“I will do all that I can, but I do not know if it will be enough. We need a great deal to turn our militias into a true army to rival Great Britain’s.”

America nodded, he knew that, and it twisted his stomach when he thought about it too hard. “It’ll have to be. I think England is making it rather clear what he thinks of me. Of all of us.”

“Yes, there are many things to be taken care of now. Securing supplies, pay for the soldiers, winter quarters…” America felt overwhelmed just listening to him.

“Good luck, General Washington.” America held out a hand and Washington grasped it. “For what it’s worth, I trust you to do what’s best."

 

***

 

_June 1, 1775_

Dear England, 

I am certain by now that you have heard what has happened at Fort Ticonderoga. But in regards to how the incident has put my emotions in such a state of turmoil I wish to tell you. Fort Ticonderoga, which was critical for the British efforts in the French and Indian War still serves purpose between here and the Hudson River Valley. However, on May 10 of this year a man by the name of Benedict Arnold of Massachusetts captured the fort. I heard many of America’s men shout of the first battle won of their Revolution. 

I trust you with everything England and I know that you will not take this lightly. But I am worried. Worried about what America may do during this...time.  I am worried that things might escalate, as we are both familiar with the energy and spirit that America has always possessed. So England, I beseech you, as your other little brother. Please, send help. 

If possible might you yourself come? It has been a long time since we have spent time in each other's company. A long time since we have discussed the energy of the world and since you have helped me in its manipulation. (I can still light candles with a snap). Come visit your little brother and maybe together we can talk to America and figure out what is really going on. He loves you too, I know you know this. So we should just convince and speak to one another. 

With Love, 

Canada

 

***

 

“What are you doing here?” America asked, frowning to see Canada sitting in the parlor of his Philadelphia home. His brother stood up, wringing his hands with nerves.

“I’d heard there was a battle--”

“Damn right there was!” America said, stomping across the rug, not worried about the flecks of mud that came off his clothes. After all, England had been the one to buy the thing. Canada took a step back.

“I came to ask why--”

“What do you mean, why? British forces were marching on my military stores and my militia fought them off. They were trying to take my ability to defend myself against King George’s tyranny!” Canada retreated from him further, apparently at a loss for something say. “Since you are so friendly with England these days why don’t you ask him why he would think to do such a thing! Ask him why he feels so threatened by me!”

The sitting couch was now between them and Canada’s eyes were wide with alarm at America’s reaction. _What was he expecting? A civilized chat about England now?!_ Canada’s mouth opened and closed several times before he finally spoke, “England, he… well… he wrote to me. He wants me to beseech you--”

“Beseech me? Honestly?! Where is the letter?” America held out a hand for it.

“I-I didn’t bring it. He just wants you to stop all this. He says he’ll forgive your minor insurrection.” America laughed at that, feeling a gratification at Canada’s flinch. 

“Minor insurrection is it? I fought and _won_ a battle against him!”

Canada’s brow furrowed, “Then do you really mean to fight him?”

America’s mouth tightened, “I thought you said you weren’t his spy.”

In return, Canada’s eyes narrowed, considering America’s redirection. “You didn’t answer my question.”

Throwing up his hands, America dropped into a sitting chair, opposite the sofa Canada was using as a makeshift barricade. “What did he really say in his letter? Did he call me treasonous, foolhardy, a child?” He watched emotions flash over Canada’s face before settling on one, anger.

“Do you not think he has cause to call you such things? You _are_ being treasonous! How stupid can you be to think you can take him on?! Look what he did to his own brother naught thirty years ago! Look what he did to France and me! Your feelings of indignation will not protect you from musket shot and cannon fire! Any righteousness you cling to will not keep you safe!”

America gaped at him. Slowly he looked away, feeling the blood draining out of his face and not wanting Canada to see it. He gripped a fist in his other hand to keep them from shaking. Did Canada think he wasn’t afraid? If so, he was the stupid one. “Get out.”

“What?”

“I said get out!” America jumped up out of the chair and Canada leaped further back, his back hitting the wall and rattling the portraits and landscapes.

“America… please…”

“There’s going to come a time Canada when you are going to have to choose, him or me. Right now you are choosing him, so _get out_! Because if you get in the middle of this you _will_ be sorry.” His heart fell when he said it, a sickness pooling in his stomach. The sadness that crossed Canada’s face made him feel even worse. “Go on. Only come back if you changed your mind.”

“America think about what you are doing! I told him about Ticonderoga! You may pretend like it was nothing, but I know what was in there! You are planning to use those arms against him aren’t you!? Are you going to attack me next?”

“That has nothing to do with you!”

“Doesn’t it?! You are bringing a war here!”

“Get out! I’m not backing down and I’m not changing my mind!”

Canada edged towards the door to the front hall slowly, as though he were afraid America was a mortar that had failed to explode on impact, but could any moment. He turned to America as he reached the hall, opening his mouth to say something. America interrupted him.

“He’s wrong and I’m not going to stop until he acknowledges it.”

“You wouldn’t be you if you gave in would you?” 

America took a deep breath and said, “Canada, I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“What I’m going to do.” Canada’s brow furrowed, but he didn’t ask, going out into the hall and out the front door. America grabbed his coat and headed into the street, looking for someone from the Continental Congress. He found Mr. Adams and Dr. Franklin conversing over a meal in a public house. 

“The boycotts need to be expanded to include the Canadians.” he said, “I don’t think we can trust them anymore. I have a feeling when it comes to it, they’ll choose the British.”

Franklin looked at him, his spectacles hanging on the end of his nose. “What makes you think that, my boy?”

“He pretty much told me so. And I… I agree with Congress’ plan for the Continental Army.”


	3. Sullen Fires Across the Atlantic Glow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> America faces the Battle of Bunker Hill and England cannot convince the king to read the Olive Branch Petition.

_ June 17, 1775 _

_ Boston, Massachusetts Bay Colony _

_ Battle of Bunker Hill _

America felt the repeat mechanics of pressing a shovel into the dirt and lifting it to build the fortifications burning in his muscles. The wall on Breed’s Hill would be vital. He could see the outline of Bunker Hill against the night sky. They had started there, but Colonel Prescott and decided it was undefensible.

The moon was almost to the western sky, but no light yet creeped from the east. America figured it a couple hours before dawn. He’d felt the eyes of the British watching him all night. They had been occupying Boston for too long. America hoped this would make some progress towards liberating them. He knew they were out there somewhere, England’s commanders - Howe, Clinton, Burgoyne and Gage. They were tired of being harried in Boston and wanted to take the fight to the “rebels”.  _ I won’t let you.  _ America thought as he pushed his shovel back into the dirt.

Thunder boomed.

America looked up, startled. There was no sign of a storm. 

The cannon ball struck the earth far away from the line sending up clods of dirt and unfortunate plants. A clean miss. For safety, the men digging the earthworks ducked behind them, listening to the cannon echoing off the water from one of the many ships in the harbor. None of them made it to the line and they were silenced.

_ Probably ruined some Lord’s beauty sleep,  _ America considered, falling back into the work with single mindedness. As the sun began to rise he felt a shift. Prescott had ordered men to extend the breastwork towards the east. America saw the problem now, in the daylight. Without defending the sides, they could easily be flanked by British troops. Apparently, Prescott had decided the east side of the hill more defensible than the west. They likely didn’t have time to protect both sides. He continued to work.

The first chirps of a marching song came ghost-like to his ears. A cold chill of something coming for him. When the lines appeared he felt his heart beat faster, not making any effort to match the steadiness of the drums that brought the scarlet mass surging towards them. America was not the only one peering over the wall, watching the soldiers arrange themselves into battalions and lines. The Continental officers moved back and forth along the lines of militiamen urging them to wait for orders to fire. Tiredness from the sleepless night had driven him to lean back on the wall, exhaustion taking over him, his musket cradled against his shoulder. 

“Jones! Wake up!” said another soldier. America blinked the sleep out of his eyes, pops of gunfire had started from nearby Charlestown. Smoke caught in his nose, but he couldn’t see what was going on from his position.

“What’s happening?” America looked up and could see the smoke drifting out to sea.

“The bloody backs set fire to the town to drive out our men. Sounds like a lot of the lobsters went down before the sharpshooters had to flee.” America nodded. “Captain Prescott thinks they’ll make an attempt from that side.”

They had been waiting for this moment since daybreak, waiting for the Lords to decide how they were going to attack since their volleys from the sea were ineffective. America could see the few American troops that had ended up on Bunker Hill, they had arrived late and had gone there by mistake in the dark.

The sun was hot on the back of his neck. America could see the swirl of redcoats in the distance, arching from the direction of the town as well as across the field in front of the earth works. There were so many of them! He tried to remember if there had been this many soldiers on any of the battlefields he’d seen.  _ Well, England never let you on the main fields, so how would you know?  _ he asked himself. The soldiers were advancing now, only a matter of time.

“Don’t shoot until you see the whites of their eyes!” came a shout from somewhere down the line.

It was time to hold fast. 

Order came in a flurry, not all of them registering in America’s ears as the sound from the incoming troops clashed with the noise from their own ranks. The fifes especially seemed to want to drill sound into his head.  _ That damn song.  _ America knew it would be ringing in his ears even after this battle was over. Words he wanted to say to England welled into the forefront of him mind.

_ You think you can just make a show of force with all your fine generals and bright uniforms. It won’t make me back down. I’m not just some subject to shine your shoes and watch the rear forts when you take all the glory. I risked my neck under your flag! I make a lot of the things that keeps your country afloat! I’ve as much right to dignity as you! I have my own flag now. You  _ **_will_ ** _ see me as an equal! _

Pop! A musket went off somewhere to his left and was immediately followed by a shout to hold. They needed to wait for effective range. 

With the beat of a drum and blast of smoke, a return volley came from the British line. America barely heard the impact of the balls making it into the earthwork. They were too far away, they may as well have thrown pebbles across the field. 

“Hold!” 

The British ranks advanced. He watched at how fast they reloaded their muskets, England had taught him to do it just that way. America swallowed. They were coming into range.

The smoke burned his eyes when he heard the order to fire, the hodgepodge of rifles and muskets sending up smoke as the snapping gunpowder propelled the ordinance towards the men across the field. 

America reminded himself that he’d been in battle before. Seen men killed and wounded, some in situations far more horrible than open battle. He heard stories from England his entire life, although the elder nation had certainly glossed over things until America had come to learn of war at first hand. However, in the moment where the British line faltered, America could only imagine England in those men’s places, stumbling and falling with a musket ball in his gut. 

His hands shook. He felt the surge of excitement from the men around him, the British seemed to be drawing back. It wasn’t orderly like he would have expected, the men in the infantry didn’t want to face another volley from a secured position. America watched, hoping they would draw back. Draw back all the way to their ships and sail back to England to tell him that America wasn’t going to bend to force. But no, they were simply reforming the lines to march again. He reloaded, trying to disconnect the memory from the task. He shouldered his musket again and pointed it across, firing again when he was ordered. 

Another retreat. In the clearing smoke America could see the British fallen, the more mobile men trying to make their way off the field to boats that would carry them back into the relative safety of Boston. How many were there? He didn’t want to count but knew it had to be hundreds. Hundreds of men killed in two volleys not including the wounded that could not get to their feet. America hunkered down behind the redoubt squeezing his eyes shut.  _ England… try to understand. Don’t make me do this… I won’t stop.  _

There seemed to be some sort of noise from the back of the colonial ranks, but America couldn’t seem to get his legs under him to find out. He heard something about reinforcement from Bunker Hill, but he didn’t really see any.

Nearby, America could see Colonel Prescott watching the men across the field through his spy glass. “They are going to make a charge.” he said to himself at first. He looked down and had caught America’s eye. The change in Prescott’s face made America’s heart hurt as the man turned away and began preparing the men for that inevitability. America knew why he’d looked worried and then hardened into resolve. They didn’t have the ammunition to keep the British forces back. They would have to fire all they had left and then try to hold the ground hand to hand.

America got to work fixing his bayonet to the end of his musket so that it wouldn’t come loose. He was one of the few men doing so, the rest didn’t have anything other than a simple knife in their pockets and those knives were not designed to stab into human flesh.

His task done, America leaned up and looked over the edge of the redoubt.  _ He’s not really out there.  _ He said to himself over and over. He knew that England was in his home. If he was there he would have  _ known  _ it. 

The British reformed at their end of the field, marching towards them again. America saw them fall along their lines once they came into range, but the line kept coming. Instinctively, he reached into his cartridge bag and his fingers met nothing. His hand scrambled for a ball. It was empty.

Wide-eyed, he realized he wasn’t the only one.

“Hold the line!” The order didn’t stop some men and America couldn’t say that he blamed them. A bayonet flashed past his face as the first British soldiers hit the redoubt climbing over the earthen wall to attack the Continentals hand to hand.

America held off the one attacking him as best he could, trying to ignore the sound of steel piercing flesh that brought back awful memories of the French and Indian War. The other man’s hand shot out and grabbed him hard by the arm trying to pin him to the ground. That action confused America.  _ Why not just try to kill me? _

A feeling passed through him. It wasn’t a human that had gotten a hold of him, it was another nation! America struggled, knocking off the other’s hat, revealing his face. For a sickening moment he was certain it was England.

But he wasn’t. There were slight differences in his face and coloring. “Who are you?” America demanded, still trying to get loose.

“Don’t worry about that now, lad. Your big brother wants to see you.”

Boom!

The cannon blast sent them flying and America hit the ground hard, coughing in the dirt. As soon as he got his limbs under him he had one thing on his mind - escape.

The militia was falling back in waves, one after the other using what little ammunition they had left to the stem the tide. America helped what wounded men he could and it twisted his heart to realize he couldn’t save them all.

In the safety of Cambridge, America felt he could finally breathe. He learned later that day in the end it was four hundred wounded, five out of six cannons lost, and about a hundred dead. He wondered how many England had lost… 

That made him think of the strange nation that looked similar to England, but wasn’t him.  _ Who was he? _

 

***

 

_ June 6, 1775 _

_ London, England _

“Good God!” England stood up from his desk and came around wanting to offer something to Wales as he came into the room. He looked frightful, his uniform torn and his face burned, still covered with blood and dirt. England hadn’t expected him to be back, his brother had obviously used magic to travel back so quickly. The news had to be dire. 

Wales walked right past him towards one of the chairs, pulling the silver gorget from his neck and tossing it in England’s direction. It hit the floor with a clatter that made England wince. He scooped it up and sat it on his desk. 

“There’s over eight hundred dead, more wounded, probably about a hundred officers killed.” Wales said, without any preamble. He leaned over and began rummaging in the drawer of the side table where England kept odds and ends.

England’s mouth went dry. “How?” The word fell out of his mouth and Wales twisted in the chair. He offered him a sardonic smile.

“How do you think? It was obviously a battle. Just because you didn’t expect him to fight doesn’t change that he did. Do you have anything to drink?” 

England took the opportunity to turn away and go to the pitcher on his desk. It was filled with beer and, for good measure, he went to the cupboard behind his desk and found a dusty bottle of whiskey. He tried to compose his face before going back to where Wales sat, using one of the handkerchiefs he’d found in the drawer to wipe his face. He couldn’t even make sense of it as he sat down in the other chair across from Wales.

“I saw your boy by the way. Ireland is right, he doesn’t look anything like you. A bonnie fighter though, he did get that from you. I probably could have gotten him if not for a poorly aimed cannon. Don’t know if it was ours or his.” 

England swallowed at the idea that America had been hit by a cannon blast and may look as bad as Wales. “How did he look, when you caught sight of him?”

“Defiant, but scared out of his wits. I think he thought I was you for a moment when I got hold of him. The only reason his soldiers stopped fighting is they ran out of ammunition and had to retreat. If you keep the blockade on him you’ll likely get him to stop. Just another uprising to stomp under your boot.” Wales made the comment offhand, but England felt that he’d punched him in the stomach. He wondered whether his brothers delighted in composing sentences that hurt. Wales didn’t look sorry at all. “I’ll leave you to decide what you would like to do next shall I?”

England gave him a dismissive wave. It wasn’t until Wales’ footsteps had faded and the door shut that England realized he’d taken the bottle of whiskey. “Damn.” England said and got up to ring for a servant to bring him another bottle. 

He sat down behind his desk, wishing that the old stone would offer some wisdom. He wrapped his arms around his knees and pressed his face into his legs. He was trying to banish the picture in his mind of America bloodied from his own cannons. 

“Why the bloody hell won’t you stop! Foolish!” A litany of other words began to pour out of his mouth. America could do this because he protected him all those years and taught him. America could do this because he kept him from falling into France’s hands. He was throwing it in his face! The sorrow turned to anger. “Perhaps you’ll understand now that you are not my equal. I should have taught you that long ago.” he said to his memory of the last time he’d been happy with the boy.

Suddenly he was struck by the first time America had trusted him, reaching out his small hands and calling him big brother.

It took draining the bottle of whiskey before he could get that image out of his head.

 

***

 

_ September 1, 1775 _

“We, your Majesty's faithful subjects of the colonies of new Hampshire, Massachusetts bay, Rhode island and Providence Plantations, Connecticut, New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, the counties of New Castle, Kent, and Sussex, on Delaware, Maryland, Virginia, North Carolina, and South Carolina, in behalf of ourselves, and the inhabitants of these colonies, who have deputed us to represent them in general Congress, entreat your Majesty's gracious attention to this our humble petition.”

To be honest England had dropped the document back to the wooden face of his desk with hopelessness.  Two men by the names of Richard Penn and Arthur Lee had produced a copy of the document to the second Earl of Dartmouth about 10 days prior before producing the real one. However, George had refused to even look at the document. In less than kind words he had informed England that to look at such drivel from an illegitimate band of rebels in the colony was not fit for a King to waste his time on. 

England had argued with George in what he knew was a futile effort from the get go. The man was in a huff about the way the colonists were behaving. Not that England could blame him, but at the same time, one often had to do things that they considered highly dislikeable. Such was life. Not more than once did England find himself pitying the middle aged king. The entirety of George's reign thus far had been littered with war and military strife.  George had led England in its triumph during the Seven Years War, much to the personified nations delight. George III had made the UK the largest power house in all of North America and India. And now it seemed as if the colonies wanted to argue and complain. It was a lot for one man to handle, including the weight of his titles.  His friend was formally known as George III King of Great Britain and Ireland, Duke and prince-elector of Brunswick-Luneburg of the Holy Roman Empire.

England rubbed his temple with a sigh. It was all too much to be focusing on this late at night. Even the candle to his right seemed to yawn and slump with fatigue. He found himself at a loss. He feared that if George refused to look at the document, that the colonies would fabricate their own answers from the King's lack of one, and England was certain that it would one that held no favor for the crown or parliament. 

Rubbing his hands together he took a centering breath before pushing his chair back England go to his feet. He would deal more with this in the morning. Lifting up the candlestick, mindful of running wax, he left the study, heading for his private chambers. Private chambers huh….honestly he would prefer to be in the colonies. Helping America at this trying time. But he needed to be here for the both of them. That was a parent's job. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! And remember to join us for one of the first campaigns of the American War of Independence in which America takes a little trip to Canada.
> 
> This chapter covers the Battle of Bunker/Breed's Hill. The battle is more famously known as the Battle of Bunker Hill due to a mistake in the reporting because it was initially going to take place on Bunker Hill but was moved to Breed's Hill.
> 
> The document England is reading is the Olive Branch Petition, an attempt by the members of the Continental Congress who were against the idea of war to try and persuade the king to make amends and agree to collaborate with them on the future of the American colonies. King George III thought it was farcical that the colonials thought they had any power to negotiate, so did not approach the document with any seriousness. You can read the document here: http://www.digitalhistory.uh.edu/disp_textbook_print.cfm?smtid=3&psid=3881


	4. Blood Brothers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> America invades Montreal and wants nothing more to join him to stand against England. Canada can't seem to choose a side. England begins making a plan.

_November 1775_

_Montreal, Canada_

“Open the door!” America slammed his hand so hard into the wood of the door that it splintered. He stared at the shards for a moment, ignoring the bits that had poked into his flesh. He knew Canada was somewhere in the house, could sense him as easily if they already stood side by side. “If you don’t open the door I’m going to break it down! We need to talk!”

He aimed a kick at the door after giving Canada a minute to reply. He didn’t and America’s foot went through the door with a deafening crash. He was grateful that the human soldiers were not nearby, he couldn't deal with their curiosity at the moment. He shoved his way through what remained of the door, hanging in pieces from its bent hinges. The brass door knob had flown clean off and lay accusingly at the base of the stair. America listened, but didn’t hear anything.

He had been in Canada’s house before, but never like this. England had been the one… he frowned, not wanting to think about England right then. He had a proposal for Canada and that was the important thing. 

He poked his head in the few rooms on the lower floor. The fire in the parlor had been stoked recently. He was certainly in the house, otherwise the fire would be banked to avoid burning the place down. America set a foot on the stairs, meaning to head into the rooms upstairs when the blast of a pistol shot sent him instinctively diving for the floor. The shot was over his head and had blown a candle sconce completely off the wall, leaving a smoking black hole in its wake. He scrambled up the stairs on all fours and tackled Canada around the knees before he had a chance to reload.

“What do you think you’re doing!?”

“Defending myself!” They scuffled on the floor and America ended up with the powder horn in his hand, although Canada still had the pistol. Without any way to reload, the pistol only had use as a club and America was pretty sure he would be able to get a hold of it before Canada could try to hit him in the head.

“I’m not attacking you!”

“What do you call bringing rebel soldiers into my city! Besieging Fort St. John? What have you been doing since August except attacking me!” Canada shoved angrily at his bangs, pushing them out of his eyes. He had spilled powder on his hands and it left a black streak on his pale forehead. America reached forward slowly, trying to take the pistol. Canada yanked his arm back. “Don’t!”

“Okay, I won’t.” America raised his hands up, although he made a point to keep himself between Canada and the things he needed to reload his gun. He would have to go through America if he wanted it. Canada slumped against the wall, the pistol hitting the floor with a thump. America settled himself in a crouch against the opposite wall. Canada looked thin and his clothes were a mess. Even in a seated position he looked unsteady. America sniffed.

“Have you been drinking?”

Canada snorted and looked away. “Might as well. I was declared indefensible again. I’ve been abandoned to you.” He pushed himself up from the wall and stumbled a little as he went towards his room. “Might as well drink to being abandoned.” America stood and followed him, cautious. He entered the room and his boot hit an empty bottle with a hollow clink.

He looked up and saw Canada sitting on his bed, making an attempt at yanking off his stockings with one hand while simultaneously keeping a wine bottle upright. America sat down on the end of the bed, watching him. “Canada…”

“He left me you know.”

“The British commander?”

“No, France. Left me to England… and now England is ignoring me.” He took a long draw from the bottle. “I wrote to him, not that you didn’t know.”

“I knew.”

“He…” Canada looked at him and America could see the tears threatening to boil over. “Sit with me.”

“What?”

“Come closer. I don’t have any weapons. I promise.” 

America paused for a moment, then scooted closer, settling next to Canada. Canada offered him the wine bottle and he took a mouthful. “England lets you import French wine?”

“He taxes me like the devil himself over it.” He drooped over, his head on America’s shoulder. America wrapped an arm around his shoulders, making himself more comfortable. He knew that Canada could really hurt him, but he was sure even if Canada tried to make a stab at him he could stop him in time. Beside that he would probably miss entirely considering how much wine he’d been into.

“You don’t have to let him do that.”

“Yes, I do.” They sat in silence for some time, sharing the bottle. Canada reached for another when they finished it off. After the third bottle was finished Canada had ended up with his head in America’s lap. America brushed the hair off Canada’s forehead and accidentally making the black powder smudge worse.

“You could join me.” he said. Canada’s eyes didn’t open, but he took a deep breath.

“That’s just it… part of me wants to.” 

America’s hand stilled. “Then you should do it. We can make him hear us! If we both stood against him--”

Canada sat up, his face pale and swaying and America put a hand on his back so he wouldn’t topple over. “He gives me what I need, America. And you…” he turned, squinting at him. “I… I need you too. _Merde._ ” He leaned backwards until he regained his former position. He blinked up at the canopy of the bed, looping his left hand into the white strips of cloth on the front of America’s uniform.

“Can I tell you something? You have to promise not to tell England.” asked America. Canada looked at him. “I’ll tell England you were cursing in French if you don’t.”

That drew a smile onto Canada’s face. “ _Je promets_.”

“I don’t think I can stop now, even if I wanted to. There’s word… that come spring, as soon as they can sail from England really… that the King is sending an invasion force… if I stop now... “

“...you’ll end up like me. Conquered.”

“That’s not what I was trying to say.” Uncomfortable silence. America lay his hand over Canada’s that was still hooked in the front of his uniform. 

“What are you trying to say then? That you’re scared?” Canada said. America couldn’t make himself answer. “I know.”

“Did you tell him?”

“I told him that I was scared.”

“Of what?”

Canada’s fingers twitched under his own. “Of you.” Their eyes met and America frowned.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“But you can.” Canada took his hand and put it over his throat. “You can hurt me… although I don’t think you could destroy me. I suppose that’s something.”

“Canada… I think you’ve had too much to drink.” His brother nodded and didn’t say anything, his breath evening out into sleep. America climbed out from under him and tucked him under the blankets. He walked down the stairs and made to secure the house. The troops were settling in to the occupation.

 

***

 

Canada drifted around like a ghost and America kept expecting him to slip away to Quebec. He would have let him, but he didn’t go. It was weeks while Montgomery’s American force waited word about General Arnold’s move from the northern Massachusetts territories. Canada had been making something in the kitchens and America wandered down there. He watched him making some kind of French pastry. Canada hadn’t really spoken to him since his drunken ramblings when America first arrived.

“You don’t have to stay here.” America said.

Canada was silent for nearly a minute before saying, “It’s my land.”

“Right now it’s _my_ city.”

“I know. When you march to Quebec…” he trailed off. America waited, but began to lose patience when Canada turned away.

“What? When I march to Quebec, what?!” 

“I’m coming with you. With my militia.” 

America’s mouth fell open and he was stunned. Canada was coming with him? To expel England’s soldiers? His heart leapt and he went around the large preparing table to pull Canada into a hug, ignoring the flour that was all over the other from his baking. Canada’s hug was loose, but America didn’t care.

He was going to be with him. Brothers against the brother that was betraying them.

 

***

 

_December 30, 1775_

_Outside Quebec_

America felt annoyed with England for never letting him set foot in Quebec. Beyond the walls was a mystery and Canada wasn’t telling him anything. Most of the Canadians with the force were from Montreal, and their visits to Quebec were not the kind that would have given them details of the city’s defenses. 

America shrugged deeper into his winter coat. It had once belonged to some British officer, but General Montgomery’s forces had acquisitioned them. America could remember being on the Plains of Abraham before when England won that great victory over France. How could he do the same? He had only a fraction of the men England had and he was trying to do it in winter instead of the fall. His boots crunched in the ice as he walked across the camp.

The siege had started not long after they arrived on December fifth, and there had been little company over Christmas. Many of his own conscripts had gone home since their contracts had concluded. Congress was doing a poor job of making sure anyone was paid or supplied. America could only feel heartened by those that stayed, however, they were there because they believed in him more than a warm hearth at the holidays.

Approaching General Arnold’s tent he made an effort to brush the snow off his shoulders. Drawing himself up to as much dignity as he could in a body that looked sixteen he strode inside. General Arnold had obviously been waiting for him.

“America, I have a request of you.”

“Anything, General Arnold.”

“I need you to get your brother to talk. He’s here in the camp isn’t he?”

“Yes, but--”

“Then he should be able to tell us how to get inside Quebec. Something that could make those inside surrender before the reinforcements arrive. There was a dispatch rider that the British ships downriver are going to make another attempt to flush us out.”

America squared his shoulders, “I have asked him. He’s not really talking to me at the moment even though he is still here… he’s upset about the arrests of Tories in Montreal--”

“I’m not asking you to ask him. I am ordering you to make him talk.” 

America was taken aback. “General Arnold… I don’t understand.” He couldn’t mean that he wanted him to hurt Canada?

Arnold gave a deep sigh and came around his campaign desk to lay his hands on America’s shoulders. He was tall and broad, America felt skinny beside him even if he could look him directly in the eye. He could feel every ounce of General Arnold’s pride and bravado weighing down on him. “If you are going to be a great nation you shouldn’t back down from your enemies. The Canadians are split in their loyalties. He needs to choose a side. For all Britain’s tyranny do you think your big brother would hesitate?”

“Shouldn’t Canada choose from his own sense of liberty? I don’t want to do what England would do.”

“Regardless of his behavior towards us, Britain is a great nation. You need to learn, America. You should consider your actions very carefully. You are dismissed.” 

America left, his nerves on edge. He avoided the Canadian regiments and went back towards his own fire, surprised when he saw Canada sitting there. Snow was beginning to fall, the clouds thick above their heads. If this didn’t end soon they would be fighting in a snowstorm.

Crouching, he added a log to the fire, then stretched out his hands over the flames. Canada didn’t seem fazed by the cold at all. 

“America…” His voice was so quiet, America nearly didn’t hear him over the crackle of the flames. Their eyes met. “Do you remember the last siege of Quebec?”

“Bits and pieces. I remember France coming into camp after you let some of my people go to tell England how to attack the west wall. I helped you escape…”

“I remember. I didn’t want to fight you… and I don’t really want to now.” 

America frowned, “Are you going to?”

“You should go back to Montreal.”

“Why?”

“Your army may be able to keep me trapped here through the winter. But they won’t defeat the garrison inside those walls. If your General Arnold really intends to attack the city tomorrow, he will lose.”

“But if you were to help...”

“I can’t.”

“You really are on England’s side.” America said, bitterness lacing his voice as he thrust another branch onto the fire. Canada jumped to his feet and America gave him a hard glare. _If you attack me first it will make this all easier…_ he thought.

“No. I’m on _my_ side.” He took a few steps into the darkness. “And you should go back to Montreal or to your own lands if you know what is good for you.”

 

***

 

_January 1, 1776_

_Outside Quebec_

Canada had been right. The battle had commenced in a snowstorm and there were far more soldiers inside Quebec than they had thought. They were outnumbered and had no advantages. Quite a few men had been captured and America felt a strange feeling too akin to the other battles he’d fought with England’s soldiers.

He’d looked for Canada in the chaos of the battle, but hadn’t found him. He had always been better at hiding. Dejected he had returned to camp, trying to help the wounded men where he could.

“America. You need to go back to Congress. See if they have authorized troops. I expect to see you in the spring.” General Arnold had been shot in the leg during the battle, but he was still as commanding as ever, even from a cot. He had forcibly told the surgeon to not come anywhere near him with a knife.

America nodded at the order, taking a satchel full of dispatches to carry with him back to Philadelphia. 

He dissolved into the wilderness feeling the lines between himself and Canada blur as he got deep into the woods. He could hear the older nations on the continent in the woods beyond him and he shrugged deeper into his coat. He didn’t want to speak to them, and it appeared the feeling was mutual.

He wanted to feel safe again and wondered how much violence he would have to endure to get there again.

 

***

 

_Across the Atlantic Ocean..._

_Canada,_

_I am sorry that you feel that America is causing problems for you and the people. I am aware of the current strifes that are happening inside of my colonies and I assure you that I am doing my utmost to get everything under control. I am currently handling stuff here in Europe but I promise you that your struggles are of the utmost importance, and I am taking a personal interest in making sure steps are being taken to handle them. Continue to keep me updated on information that my officers are not privy too._

_Love,_

_England_

England leaned back in chair rubbed at his jaw with a mix of guilt and annoyance. Blinking slowly in the flickering light of a few gathered candles the blonde haired nation heaved a sigh. Canada spoke the truth when he claimed that England had been ignoring his letters, he had been pushing them to the side in favor for more official letters. 

However, for some reason tonight the island country had found himself unable to sleep, mind occupied by the letters sitting at the north corner of his desk. Weighing him down like stones in a cart. He had found himself, candlestick in hand, trudging down the hallways barren with souls due to the hour and then sitting at his desk, letter opener cracking wax seals.

Silently he admitted that it was his own cowardice that keep him from opening dear Canada’s letters. Pulling naked parchment towards himself he eyed the quill to his left. Feather a deep brown, tall and soft. He stroked the piece, procrastinating the inevitable. He had nothing and yet so much to say all at once. The situation was a mess to begin with and now it seemed as if America was hell bent to drag Canada into the fit as well. He couldn’t help but feel that Canada was hardly telling him everything either.

Plucking up a pen, England decided that this was something that he could no longer avoid. Heaving a sigh he swallowed and now the silence was broken by the scratch of a quill against  parchment. 

_Dear Canada,_

_I am sorry and highly upset with everything that has been going on with America in the recent months. I will make this quick and sweet. Such things I do not wish to discuss through a letter when such family matters should be discussed in the sitting room or library where the three of us can talk face to face. However, I cannot completely ignore the tantrums that America has been throwing and I plan to tamp it down with haste. Until then, I wish to give you as much of an upper hand in dealing with the situation. I am aware that I have lost military power in Virginia and I refuse to lose power in the rest of the colonies._

_As such, I am giving you a new position. You now have the status of a Royal Officer for the country of Great Britain. You shall start receiving the necessary documents, which I deem appropriate, to keep you in the know. I am planning to travel to the colonies in the near future. In the meantime I will send further troops to your lands and elsewhere in British America._

_Until then we shall continue this correspondence. Everything needs to be recorded in official reports, copied and sent with the traveling ships so that I may be kept up to date. And I mean everything, from battles, logs and even simple conversations with America. I trust that you will remain loyal to your family and the one that is threatening to tear us apart._

_Love,_

_England_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience with this chapter! Life intervened but we are hoping to get more chapters to you soon! Thank you for reading and if you liked it leave us a kudo and recommend our fic to others!


	5. Hang Together, Hang Seperately

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> America ponders the words of Thomas Paine. Canada makes his choice. England decides on action.

_February 1776_

_The American Colonies_

America remembered the layout of this house as if it was yesterday. The cabin in Jamestown had been small, but it was the first roof he had ever known. England had built it himself and America had taken his hand and lived with him. In the depths of winter he would curl up into his side, feeling safe from the famines, freezes, and wars. 

He could feel him there beside him, England, his long limbs thin and wirey. America wrapped his arms around him and buried his nose into his neck. He smelled like he always did - stone, smoke, and sea. When he had been little he could talk England into letting him sleep beside him and he would close his eyes and drift to sleep in that safety. Things had changed, he didn’t want to just sleep beside England in his bed. It appeared that England felt the same. 

They were skin to skin, something that England had never given him before. America felt as though his skin were on fire and England’s touch only fanned the flames. More. He wanted more. His lips touched England’s and he could hear the words of affection that he’d said to him before, now laced with other meanings.

America was on his back and England was sitting across his hips. He moved slightly and America saw the flash of a silver blade in his hand. In slow motion the blade came down and down and pierced America’s breast, stabbing him through the heart…

“England, no!” 

America jolted awake, his blanket trapping him until he was able to throw it off where it landed in a heap on the floor. Sweat dripped off his nose and he felt soaked through. The damped fire in his room through off a pale glow and he realized he was in his bedroom in Philadelphia. England wasn’t here, he was across the Atlantic.

The floor was cold beneath his feet but it served to steady him as he got out of the bed. There was a little water in the ewer near the wash basin and he splashed water onto his face. He felt twitchy, his body confused by the dream that had suddenly become a nightmare. He scrubbed his face roughly with a washcloth trying to banish the dream of kisses he shouldn’t desire as though they really lay on his skin. 

Leaning his hands on the dressing table he examined his bed in the mirror. He wouldn’t be going back to it, not tonight. His dreams weren’t safe. He had always disliked the quiet of winter, and now it was nigh becoming unbearable. Many members of Congress had returned home as there couldn’t be many developments when the British army couldn’t maneuver. He missed Canada, usually they could spend at least part of the winter together. Not this time, and maybe never again. America hastily pulled on his dressing gown, wanting to do something at, the very least, productive. Perhaps he would visit Canada himself, after all some of the garrisons were still stationed in Montreal, he had every right to visit he told himself.

He took a taper and touched it to the fire, the flame catching the wick and throwing the room into flickering shadows. Once downstairs, he settled the candle onto the small table beside his reading chair. A few new logs and several thrusts of the poker set the fire to blazing, throwing the room into a warm light. 

The light caught on the fresh coat of wax on the dining table in the room beyond. For a moment, America could see the way England had sat there decades ago going through his war correspondence. America had come across a letter from a country named Prussia who was suggesting all sorts of illicit activities. Did England…? 

_Does he mean it the way people mean it? ...We do that?_

_Many of us._

_When?_

_I will tell you that when you are older._

America smashed that thought before it could begin. He was only wondering because of the dream, he told himself. 

He settled into the armchair closest to the fire and pulled his feet up beneath his dressing gown. He’d neglected to put on slippers and despite the heavy curtains over the windows and the fire, he was cold. 

Strewn around on the furniture were papers and books. He had been trying to keep up with what his people had been saying about him, about England. His stomach clenched when he remembered the fury when the King had branded them all rebels.

“We must hang together now gentleman… else, we shall most assuredly hang separately.” Dr. Franklin had said. Whether or not England had anything to do with it, England’s King had broken with America. And England was _tacit consentire._ America wondered if England would regret making him read Locke’s theories.

Mr. Paine’s newest publication was sitting on top of the nearest pile. It had just been published in January, and Mr. Paine had delivered the copy before going home to Boston for a little while. America had not had time to read it. It would be as good a distraction as any other.

_Common Sense._ A provocative title, America thought. Mr. Paine was gearing up to say something about independence, and America felt a little thrill at the thought. The feeling disappeared as soon as it arrived. Would such a thing even be possible?

_“...we should… inquire into some of the many material injuries which these colonies sustain, and always will sustain, by being connected with, and dependant on Great Britain.”_

America knew England wanted to keep him that way. If he had his way he would have stayed small and unable to fight his own wars. _I did fight a war. And I needed his help..._

_“I have heard it asserted by some that as America hath flourished under her former connexion with Great Britain, that the same connexion is necessary towards her future happiness, and will always have the same effect. Nothing can be more fallacious than this kind of argument.”_

Discomfort stirred in America’s chest and he shifted in the chair. The Tories said such things. Perhaps, if England apologized things could get better?

_“...she has protected us, say some. That she hath engrossed us is true, and defended the continent at our expence as well as her own is admitted… her motive was INTEREST not ATTACHMENT; that she did not protect us from OUR ENEMIES on OUR ACCOUNT, but from HER ENEMIES on HER ACCOUNT, from those who had no quarrel with us on any OTHER ACCOUNT, and who will always be our enemies on the SAME ACCOUNT. Let Britain wave her pretensions at the continent, or the continent throw off the dependence, and we should be at peace with France and Spain were they at war with Britain. The miseries of Hanover last war ought to warn us against connexions.”_

France. America could remember him from when he was little, before the French and Indian War. He would be friendly to him, kind even, especially towards Canada. He had warned America about letting England use him to his own ends… _England was the reason I had to fight him._

_“Even the distance at which the Almighty hath placed England and America, is a strong and natural proof, that the authority of the one, over the other, was never the design of Heaven.”_

England had been gone so long at times. He was three thousand miles away in Europe with the rest of them. The loneliness of those times made America feel sick and he nearly put the book down. But, he _was_ almost through. Mr. Paine would want to know what he thought.

_“Ye tell us of harmony and reconciliation, can ye restore us to a time that is past? Can ye give prostitution its former innocence? Neither can ye reconcile Britain and America.”_

A flush washed through him as the images of the dream came crashing back. That had never happened, but he felt the want. He’d wanted England to look at him, hold him close, share his touch… he had tried when England passively refused him to go back to the way things were before. 

He couldn’t. England had bloodied him on the battlefield and denied him any equality. There was no going back now. His eyes hurried over the type.

_“...the free and independent states of America.”_

America needed to read the words multiple times. They were the last words of the pamphlet. The conclusion to the grand statement. _Free and independent states of America._

He leaned back in the chair and clutched the little publication to his chest, turning the words over and over in his mind. Tasting them on his tongue as he spoke them to the fireplace. He’d heard the words before. Independence had been a hot topic of conversation amongst the New England delegates ever since Congress first convened. 

The fire nearly burned itself out when America came back to his surroundings. He’d lost himself in thoughts of a future without England. A future where he could ally himself with whomever he chose, any of the Europeans which Paine put forth as his parents. Perhaps other countries unexplored or even farther away than England’s home. A chance where England would truly see him as an ally and not an unruly subordinate. Maybe that way, someday, England would see him. And in the meantime, his people would live free and independent.

_I am the Independent States of America._

 

***

 

_May 18, 1776_

_Outside Montreal_

_Battle of the Cedars_

The cold of Canada’s lands sank into America’s bones. Only the hint of spring spread through the air with plants breaking through the snow. Winter had felt like a hand around his chest, and spring was starting to loosen it. All he could think was that it was loosening around his throat to strike him a blow. 

England had refused him. Canada was missing. 

Spring was always volatile, but this one prickled at his skin. Rumors that British ships were headed up the river to Quebec and that British reinforcements were going to make an attempt to retake Montreal were swirling. It was time to wait for the blow. 

He had arrived in Montreal only a few days ago, hoping to appeal to Canada once more. If Canada joined him it would be easier to face England. He wouldn’t be alone. He would convince him, he was sure of it. However, Canada’s home had been empty when he arrived and when he asked no one had seen him all winter. He had been upset about the dogged pursuit of Loyalists in the city and left. _Canada… you have to decide._

They arrived at Fort Anne to news that Canadian Loyalists and Iroquois allies had surrounded the fort at the Cedars. That the fort was lost. Major Sherburne stopped the advance, sending a courier back to Montreal for more troops. 

America did not want to wait, but it was a risk to go out alone. Canada was not the only nation in those woods, the Indians had their own and while they did not speak to him very often he couldn’t help be afraid of them. They were so much older than he was. 

The order was to await reinforcements, so he would wait. He wondered if Canada was out there with the Loyalists or the British commanders. He sincerely hoped not.

It took two days, and on May 20, Sherburne decided to move out. They floated up the river to Quinze-chêns with 100 men. America crept through the woods with the rest of them, they would need the element of surprise to try and relieve the Cedars. They needed the fort without it the British would be able to sail right up to Montreal. With navy ships to reinforce ground troops there would be no hope of holding the city. _Once again I am indefensible…_ America could remember Canada’s voice. _I won’t give up on you._ he thought at his brother, _Not unless you give up on me first._

America could hear them now. The sound of their enemies in the woods. It was time to engage. 

“This is it boys, we have to relieve the fort.” The sounds of drums filled his ears, beating out orders. America tried to get a sense of how many men they were facing. It was more than his own at any rate. 

The first pops of musket fire sent sparks down his limbs. He would have the fort, England wouldn’t be able to have Canada uncontested. They were going to be North America together. The part of Canada that couldn’t pick a side was not going to win. 

Surrounded. Shots and yells.

“Hold! We surrender!” 

He had lost. Forty minutes of fighting. There were too many on the other side. Captured.

America hated this march, stripped of dignity and weapons, to be a pawn in someone else’s game. Well, this was his game. He would be back on the other side in no time at all.

It was cold in the dirt of the inner fort, although it was helped by the fact that no one had taken their coats. He sat with his men waiting for word. It was two full days before he was pulled aside and marched into the officer’s quarters. It couldn’t have been England calling for him, he would have had him brought immediately. America didn’t sense him anywhere nearby. America sat down in one of the chairs, who knew how long one of the British stiffs would take. 

“Colonel Matthew Williams.” came the announcement from the guard. America got up from the chair and turned, excited to see his brother. America’s heart leapt in his chest only to fall a moment later. 

Canada had come. 

But he came dressed in the crimson coat of a Royal Officer. 

“Leave us.” he said to the soldier that had been sent to guard him. The man looked unsure at first, glancing at America and taking in his expression of bewilderment and anger. A second order made the man salute and disappear out the door.

“I don’t believe it.” America said, pushing the words out through the tightness in his throat, “How can you choose him?”

“If I’m going to be crushed between the proverbial rock and a hard place I’d rather take the one that won’t crack.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” 

“Where do you honestly think this will all lead? He’s one of the most powerful nations in the world, and what are we?”

“You said you would consider… your people that are with mine…”

“They’re yours now. They can go to Massachusetts or New York or wherever they want. It won’t be hard for them to pass as Americans. They will have to deal with being traitors just like you will.”

“You don’t mean it.”

Canada looked away, folding his arms across his chest. “Don’t tell me what I should mean.” 

America stared at him, wanting to rip the crimson coat from his body and throw it in the fire. “But you’ll let England tell you what to do? I was at his side during the last war, he’ll treat you the same as me.”

Canada looked back, a dark look on his face. He came close and America held fast. His brother was only a margin shorter, but they could look each other in the eye easily even when there was barely a hand’s-width between them. “I know what I am getting when I choose him. You are like a faulty flintlock, one misfire and I am dead.” Canada’s eyes dropped and he stared at the frayed edges on America’s coat where the buttons had been torn off by the men who’d captured them in the woods.

America felt the betrayal gnaw at him, but he refused to let it spill over. He clenched his jaw. He could see the tension in Canada’s face. America grabbed him by the shoulders, shaking him. He would look at him! “Why are you really doing this?!”

The words fell from Canada’s lips, “I don’t want to disappear!” America would rather Canada had punched him, these words cut deeper than any blow could have.

“You wouldn’t disappear! We’d be together, united against him! I would protect you!” He pulled Canada to him and wrapped an arm tight around his shoulders. “I would protect you.” he repeated. Canada leaned against him.

“I know you would try. But you can’t.” he tried to pull away but America wouldn’t let him go. “If he knew that I considered joining you before I chose him… America, you’re too damn dense to realize this but he loves you. You could literally stab him in the back and he would still love you even if he cursed you and punished you for it. I don’t have that luxury. I’m much more of a commodity than you. He doesn’t see me when I stand right in front of him.”

“Then…”

“No. I’ve chosen him because I can’t stand in between. I would disappear.” America’s head dropped to Canada’s red cladded shoulder. The wool was scratchy and it reminded America too much of when he’d embraced England. Canada was wearing his colors. America never had. He dropped the embrace and turned away, not wanting to let Canada see his face. Canada spoke again, “Prisoner exchanges are going to happen before the end of the month. I want you to carry the message back to Montreal…”

America clenched his fists and in one moment struck the desk. The wood splintered. With the mess he tried to let the anger flow out of him too. It would be like last time then. England came between them. America sighed. “All right. I’ll make sure that England doesn’t suspect that you have been sympathetic towards me. Just promise that… whatever happens…”

“We’ll always be brothers. Even if we’re not on the same side.” Canada took a deep breath. “Will you forgive me for what I may do?”

“Will you forgive me?”

“I promise. America… make it convincing.”

“I will.”

 

*** 

 

Thousands of British and Hessian troops landed in Canada that summer. It was early June when America knew they needed to begin the retreat from Montreal. He had been staying in Canada’s house, trying not to think about what he would need to do to convince England that Canada would be loyal to him. That the Canadians marching back with the Continental Army were his people now.

He walked into the study and tore down a cloth that he’d put up over a portrait as soon as he’d arrived. It was a painting of England and he looked into his face. The England in the painting was the cold one that he knew now, not the warm person who would bring him things and hold him close. 

America held the lit end of his candle and watched as the oil paints caught flame, warping the image and spreading to the walls. 

The weather did not cooperate with burning the city, not for lack of trying. America went back knowing that the army would leave destruction in its wake.

 

***

 

_June, 1776_

_London, England_

“How the bloody hell is this even happening!” England couldn’t help, nor care that he was shouting at the Parliament members and officers seated at the long table. Slamming the papers onto the sturdy wooden face and breathing heavily through his nose he glared at the human men around him. 

“England.” George III grabbed his arm, giving the country a stern look. The King was attempting to handle the situation with dignity, although he had been raging about it all in private only an hour earlier. England’s own temper had not waned.

“Forgive me your Majesty, but no! How can I be calm when those rebels are ruining Boston!” Raking his hand through his hair England breathed deeply through his nose again before tugging at his coat. “March 17, those blasted rebels took Boston. My Boston! Your Boston, My Lord! We have continued on with this petty squabble since last April with Lexington and Concord! I still do not understand how that man Washington was able to gather such rabble rousers into any semblance of order! The fact that we have had to evacuate the area is rubbish! This was a petty siege that lasted eleven months! Eleven months too long! Now our troops are being forced to to lick their wounds in Nova Scotia!” England all but hissed, turning heel to march from the table. He was seething, needing no looking glass to affirm that his face was red, pupils dilated with rage and offense.  

Stopping in front of the large, maintained fireplace England flexed his fingers by the half count, breathing deeply and willing his heart to calm. The whole situation was a damned mess. Not only were his troops in Nova Scotia, but many of those subjects who stayed loyal to the crown in Boston had fled with them. Many of them had taken to ship and were now settling down here in England. Canada had informed him that multiple families had also decided to set up either permanent residence in the area or wait out the violence before returning to America. 

England wished to turn powder and ball back at the city, America had no idea what he had done. But with his military experience he knew such an action would be a terrible waste of resources. The only thing injured in the evacuation was his own pride. Grinding his teeth together he swallowed, praying for calm and rationality to soothe his swollen mind. Much of the siege had been a battle for control of resources between Britain and the rebel forces. It was not worth another battle over some city which now oozed treason like some poor bastard who was being letted in hopes of healing.

Looking over his shoulder and back at the table he was reminded of much smaller letters that had come along with the main report. Ah, yes. He still had the problem of his generals. Sniffing and turning back around he avoided the wary eyes of the men stationed in the room. First, there was General Howe that was to be dealt with. The British press was already tearing apart the man like crows over a piece of carnage. Parliament was not far behind with turned nose and spitting words. His failures during the Boston campaign were an embarrassment to all of Britain. Secondly, General Gage. The man would never take up command again if England had anything to do with it. Thirdly was Burgoyne. The man had potential and could be of use in later campaigns. England rubbed at his chin, taking note that he would need to shave soon. And lastly was General Clinton. England needed him. He of all the four would receive the least punishment, if any at all. He was far too useful to turn a hard hand against. 

Walking back to the table, England sighed and raised his chin. “Forgive me, I find myself under immense stress. Such actions are quite personal between us nations and our colonies.” England didn’t bother to look around, knowing that quick nods would be mimicked by the tables occupants.  “Besides…” a smile reeking of disdain pulled up the corners of his mouth. “I believe that is is about time we put our Navy to use, much more than previously. The tales of grandeur in regards to our ruling of the seas are not mere children's tales.” 

Pushing the letters to the side England plucked up another from the surface of the table. The next agenda. “Colonel Matthew Williams has contacted us in regards to a disturbance in The Cedars.” he lifted the letter to eye level, shaking it lightly. “Not only have those blasted rebels filled Boston with their stench but now they have smeared their filth along the north shore of the Saint Lawrence River. Benedict Arnold was leading his troops up there. We had the upperhand for a while but somehow Arnold’s forces were reinforced…” He dropped the letter. 

They had all been briefed. There was no reason that he had to rehash the incident. They had come to terms with a prisoner exchange after the battle yet the rebels had neglected to upkeep their side of the bargain. Their rebel Congress accused England's generals of mistreating their prisoners and as a result had sent a letter to Lieutenant General John Burgoyne rather than the province Governor Guy Carleton. British Generals had handed American prisoners over to Natives and the rebels had been furious. 

The fact that the Natives had been involved was certainly one of the reasons the rebels were so angry, that England was certain. The rebels had been having trade arguments with the tribes along the Northern St. Lawrence and the Great Lakes regions for some time now. A small sliver of justice wormed its way through England's chest. The Iroquois Nation was a fierce gathering of savage warriors. A blood piece of the British armies in the colonies. Served the _Americans_ right. But now they had to pay for breaking their side of the bargain. The Americans still refused to release British prisoners. 

“Gentlemen,” he tossed the letter to the middle of the table. He looked up with a frown “We have much to do and I am tired of dealing with these rebels. Get the parchment and quills, we have much to discuss. We have a rebellion to crush.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed it please leave us a comment or a kudo! 
> 
> The quotes in the February 1776 section are pulled directly from Thomas Paine's A Common Sense which was published that January. It's a fascinating part of American literature and we recommend reading it! It's available for free online (places like the Gutenberg Project).


	6. When in the course of human events

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Events comes to pass in July of 1776 that will change their relationship forever...

_July 1, 1776_

_Philadelphia, Colony of Pennsylvania_

Thomas Jefferson sat quietly at his desk near the window. He was bent over the document he’d been working on tirelessly. America had sat up with him several of the nights since Mr. Jefferson had been tasked on June 11 with creating the document that would sever his ties with England. America couldn’t seem to move away, even though he knew at times he was trying Mr. Jefferson’s patience. If any of the humans were a match for America’s nerves, it was Jefferson’s. Many of the delegates were gone gaining last minute instructions so Congress had seemed unnaturally quiet. 

Martha Jefferson had tried to engage America in some other pursuit, but he often wandered back to her husband’s study watching him pen the letters. Congress had read the final draft three days ago and had offered more suggestions. Dr. Franklin and Mr. Adams were expected any minute to offer some more words and changes.

America paced near the bookshelf, but then dropped into one of the chairs. He was particularly fond of this one. He moved his feet and the chair swiveled in a complete circle. America couldn’t help but feel the slight thrill of fun. The mechanics had been explained to him on the first occasion he had discovered the extraordinary chair. It had been invented by removing the casters of the window and adding a second seat, that way it could completely rotate. It was after three turns that he realized Mr. Jefferson was watching him. The apology was on his lips, but he could see the man’s expression held just a hint of a smile.

“If you are able to have any joy left you must not be entirely unpleased with the possibility of independence.”

America stopped, his back to the Virginian. “Mr. Jefferson, may I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“Is it possible to desire something with all of your heart, but dread it all the same?”

“I think it is with most momentous things that we feel those emotions. We are all waiting on this I think, but we shall not know for certain until everyone votes tomorrow.”

America turned the chair to face him, “What do you think will happen?”

“I suspect that you sense that better than I. After all, are you not our country?” America looked down at his shoes. He _was_ their country, but what would that mean when he was on his own? His thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. Mr. Adams and Dr. Franklin entered the room. Out of the corner of his eye, America saw Jefferson take a deep sigh. He had confided in America that he felt the spirit of the document was being changed with each new revision. America wasn’t sure what to think of that.

America returned to spinning in his chair, trying to work out his nerves until Mr. Adams cleared his throat for the fourth time. He stopped and looked up at Mr. Adams. “America, we have some business to discuss.”

“Now John, you make it sound as though the boy can’t be present.” Dr. Franklin added.

“I think that it would be best for us to discuss these matters without him.” America had grown used to Mr. Adams’ brusque speech by now and didn’t even feel a pang of offense. Dr. Franklin put a hand on America’s shoulder and began steering him out of the chair and towards the door.

“Why don’t you take yourself to my house. You are welcome to play with any of my inventions only be careful with them.” America was through the door frame. “Run along now, I will send for you if we need you.”

The door shut unceremoniously behind him America picked his way out of the boarding house where Mr. Jefferson was staying. It seemed strange that life as usual was going on in the streets of Philadelphia. He felt that the entire world were crashing down around his ears. He could feel his anxiety rattling through him like electricity. He was like Dr. Franklin’s lightning rod channeling the energy from the sky. He just had nowhere to discharge it.

He arrived at the house and was taken upstairs to the parlor by one of the house servants. He walked amongst the books and picked up this and that. He finally decided on the Armonica. Dr. Franklin had invented it in 1762. It mechanically recreated the sound of playing a wine glass. Glass bowls were set on a pole that could be turned, the player needed only to wet their fingers and touch each to set them ringing. The sound seemed to fill America’s soul as he tried to figure out how to play some of the popular tunes. It took some time but he managed to play quite a few of them. He tried to remember all the variations of lyrics that went with each one. He let his mind wander as he played and it wasn’t until he was playing “Rule Brittania” that he made himself stop. He felt as though he’d been hit in the face with a bucket of ice water.

He sat down on couch in front of the empty fireplace. It was far too hot to have fires in any room but the kitchens. No breeze moved the curtains. He closed his eyes. 

It was well past dark when he awoke, having slumped over on his side. His neck felt stiff. He rubbed at it and glanced at the clock. The moonlight revealed the hands showing sometime past midnight. It was now July 2, 1776. Mr. Adams had written to his wife to say this might be the most auspicious day in American history. America wondered if he would be right?

Would the sun set on a new name?

As quietly as he could, America crept out of Dr. Franklin’s house into the silent streets of a Philadelphia night. He repeated the words he’d read of Mr. Jefferson’s draft over and over in his head.

_This… Declaration of the thirteen United States of America. When in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which connected them to another… we hold these truths to be self evident… The history of the present King of Great Britain is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations… Our repeated petitions have been answered only by repeated injury… we have warned them… we, therefore, the Representatives of the United States of America… solemnly publish and declare, That these United Colonies are, and of Right ought to be Free and Independent States…_

He returned home around dawn. He used each motion of cleaning up and getting dressed as an attempt to clear his mind. He stared into his clothing chest, trying to decide which coat he should wear. He didn’t have very many nice coats, as he preferred to dress plainly. For a moment his eyes settled on a dark gray coat. He had already pulled it from the hangar when he remembered where it came from. 

England had insisted America have a proper dress coat for evening events, considering that he could hardly wear his provincials uniform to formal events. Putting aside America’s normal, homespun coat he had offered his own jacket. Both England and the tailor had fussed for hours trying to get the thing to properly fit America’s broader shoulders. In that moment he’d felt grown up to be given something so fine. He’d enjoyed being fussed over by England.

America balled up the fabric in his hand. He considered throwing it out the open window to let it be trampled by carriages in the street. He began to pull at the sleeve, watching as the thread began to give. With one yank he could be done with it. It would be ruined. All desire to look at the beastly piece of clothing disappeared in an instant and he tossed it into the back of the chest. It fell in a heap. He chose his Continental uniform instead.

He stood in front of the looking glass fixing the buckles and buttons, taking on the look of any young Continental Officer. He stared at himself in the mirror. “The United States of America.” he said to his reflection. he felt a small thrill, that just as soon was swallowed by darkness.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he took a deep breath. His chest felt tight, as though a hand were squeezing his heart and lungs. Was it England? Trying with all his might to keep his hold over him? England’s eyes seemed to be on his back all along the walk towards Congress, to the room where they would decide what he was to become.

The delegates stood around the respective tables, arguing amongst themselves. Mr. Hancock was seated behind his desk, taking his position as the President of Congress. America strode across the room, avoiding the other delegates eyes and pulled up a chair beside him. Hancock spared a glance for him, then pulled out a handkerchief. He wiped the sweat from his face. The day seemed determined to roast them all in their fine clothes. 

America swallowed. He knew some of the delegates were no doubt hauling liquor in a flask in their pockets and some of those mugs for certain held beer. He avoided getting up to ask if he could have some, he felt he needed to be completely present for this. 

“Are you afraid, America?” America jolted from his thoughts and looked at Mr. Hancock.

“Maybe a little.”

Hancock offered him a small smile, “Only a little? Then you are braver than anyone else in this room.” Before America could think of anything to say in return Hancock banged the gavel on his desk. The delegates began to remove to their seats. When they were seated, Hancock spoke again, “We will bring to a vote the resolution proposed by Mr. Lee. That these colonies are, and of a right ought to be, free and independent states and all political connection between them and the country of Great Britain is, and of a right ought to be, totally dissolved.” 

A silence followed Mr. Hancock’s words. America wondered if he would ever be able to breathe normally again. He clutched the arms of his chair. The voting began.

“New Hampshire.”

“New Hampshire votes yes.”

_Will they be the only ones? Will the others condemn it? Dr. Franklin said the vote would need to be unanimous to carry any weight… will it happen?_

“Rhode Island.”

“Rhode Island votes yes.”

“Massachusetts.” America looked towards the men that had been at the front of this movement for independence. Samuel Adams stood up and looked America directly in the eye.

“Massachusetts votes yes.”

America couldn’t tell if he actually couldn’t breathe or if he’d simply forgotten how.

“New York.”

The delegate from New York stood up. He looked dower and America’s heart felt somewhere near his feet. “New York has yet to receive new instructions from its constituent assembly. We therefore, respectfully, abstain.”

America’s heart began to pound. Was this where it would all begin to fall apart?

Connecticut votes yes. New Jersey votes yes. Pennsylvania. Delaware. Virginia. Maryland. North Carolina. South Carolina. They all vote yes.

“Georgia.”

“Georgia votes yes.”

A pause. America looked at the board on the wall where they tallied the votes.

“The vote stands twelve for independence, none against, with one abstention. The resolution carries.”

Silence. 

_The United States of America…_ The wood of the chair bit into his palm as it splintered beneath his fingers.

Power rushed into him at the thought of those words. It was who he was now. The press on his chest lifted. He took a deep breath and felt all of _his_ lands that stretched to the ocean and the horizon. _His_ people. _His_ future.

Freedom was his. _He_ was a nation in his own right.

America stood up and clenched his hands to hide his bleeding palms. He felt the eyes of the entire Continental Congress fall upon him. Drawing himself up to his full height, he felt a smile stretch across his face. 

He could still see the uncertainty on their faces, but he could sense their determination.

The smile remained throughout the next few days as they made sure the Declaration of Independence said exactly what they meant.

The printing presses made copies to spread across the newly minted States and out to the world. As he stood in the crowd and listened to Congress read the Declaration on July 4, he watched the Grand Union flapping in the wind. The thirteen stripes no longer stood for thirteen colonies, there were thirteen states. The small Union Jack in the corner seemed to give him admonishment.

A new flag would need to be commissioned. 

_I won’t go back to you England, not as a colony ever again. You have to see me for who I am now, not who you want me to be. You will have to destroy me to get me back._

***

_August 10, 1776_

_London, England_

_First news of the American Declaration of Independence reaches Europe_

It was like taking fever. 

Sweat soaked brow, the acid in his throat, trembling hands. Late morning found him leaning over the mess bucket, breakfast, not as good coming back up as it was going down. He did not have to even see the letter again, he had left it at his desk and he could feel the weight of its contents from here. He groaned, stomach turning, head pounding. 

The press of a cool cloth, wet with water on his forehead, briefly distracted him from his misery. Blinking, bleary eyed with pain, he found himself looking into Charlotte’s face. Charlotte of Mecklenburg-Strekitz, had married his King George III in 1761. She was a lovely woman, in the flesh and of the heart. England had found himself enamored by her just as much, if not more than the rest of the court.  He wanted to give her a smile, but instead turned back to the bucket with a groan. It was a lose, lose situation. He needed to bow his head in able to retch, but in turn it caused an insufferable pounding in his sinuses. 

Nations could get sick, though it was fairly uncommon. When the court physician had deemed him healthy despite the symptoms, George and Charlotte had come to the conclusion that it was because of the rebellion. He gave a sour smile when Charlotte began rubbing at his back, though praise be the almighty, it seemed as if there was nothing left inside of his stomach.

“England dear, how about you move to the bed now.” The woman gave him a smile, and any arguments the island nation had about movement all but died like a tired candle. Taking her hand, he allowed her to lift him from the carpeted stone floor and trudge over to his bed.

“Charlotte.”

“It is alright dear, George already said he would handle the meeting this afternoon and that you are to sleep. No other nations shall be there and it does little for the morale of our nobles if you are seen in such a condition. And no it's not your fault so do not get all guilty and mopey.” Charlotte chastised lightly.

“All right” England murmured, glad the fever had him flushed so that she would not discern the color of his cheeks with his embarrassment. He had indeed felt guilty and was about to argue (not whine,  Gentlemen do no such childish thing!) against his not attending the meeting. America’s actions had thrown him into a state more times than he’d cared to admit in the last months. That bloody thing America called his ‘Declaration of Independence’. 

He inhaled through his nose deeply as his emotions began to rise again, focusing on helping Charlotte unbutton his shirt and pull the stack of blankets over his sweaty form. He closed his eyes as the Queen brushed back his bangs and laid the cool cloth on his forehead. 

“Go ahead and sleep now England, I shall be back later with the servants.”

“Charlotte you do not-” he cracked an eye open to look at her, falling silent when she gave him another admonishing look.

“Do not argue with me young sir.” she warned, ignoring his chuckle at the irony of such a statement. “I will be back to check in on you.” She smiled, pressing a kiss to his temple, before rising up in a plum of skirts and taking the candle with her. 

England curled onto his side as the door closed noiselessly behind her. His body ached with fever and pain. And how he wished that was it. That he only suffered from physical ailments, they were small in comparison to the pain in his chest. The shock, betrayal, and hurt upon reading America’s declaration had buckled his knees, sending the King and the Parliament into an uproar of panic when their personified nation hit the floor like a corpse from the noose. The emotional sickness was much more potent than that of any sickness he was experiencing.  Gripping at the pillow he pressed his face into the fabric. England was glad his violent coughing fits covered up any sobs.

It was the multiple pockets of weight on his bed, as well as the hushing that stirred England from the sleep that had overtaken him. Blinking against blurry vision, England found his bed full of children looking at him with worried expressions. Turning slightly he saw Charlotte with an apologetic smile and a child at her hip. Turning back he smiled and croaked a hello, receiving a chorus  of ‘Hello England’ and ‘Are you getting better?’.

“Yes.” England smiled, looking from his right to the left. It seemed as if they had all lined up in a circle about him, and to his amusement in line of age, oldest to the youngest. There was George IV (the lad would turn 14 in a mere two days time!) , Frederick Duke of York, William IV, Charlotte Princess Royal, Edward Duke of Kent, Princess Augusta Sophia, Princess Elizabeth, who he now found both girls crawling into his lap with yawns as he moved to sitting. Ernest Augustus I of Hanover, Augustus Duke of Sussex, Adolphus Duke of Cambridge and asleep in her mother's arm was Princess Mary, Duchess of Gloucester, the little lady only being five months old. “You are all in your night clothes, it must be quite late.” England commented, patting Augusta and Elizabeth on their sleeping caps.

“Yes, but we asked Mother if we may bid you a good night before we turned in.” George IV piped up, sitting straight backed. “It was my idea.” he added, flushing when England gave him a look. 

“Should a prince brag, George?” a much deeper voice sounded from the doorway. Eleven sets of eyes swiveled towards the entrance, followed by fumbled bows and curtseys as they saw the King standing in the doorway. 

“No, Your Majesty.” the younger George murmured, and his father merely shook his head in amusement. 

“I am glad to see that you are awake.” George commented, patting his oldest son on the head as he came over to join the crowd around the nation's bed. “Not that I can say the same for Elizabeth and Augusta.” He chuckled. Looking down, England blinked in surprise when he realized the two girls were asleep in his lap, chubby cheeks pushed up against his chest as they dreamed.

“Yes, George.” England nodded.

“Any better?”

“For the moment, yes.” 

“Good.” the King nodded, smiling at his friend and country. Pressing a kiss to his wife's left temple, he moved forward, scooping Elizabeth up from England’s lap and nodding towards young George to do the same with Augusta. “We shall let you continue to rest then. Children, it is high past your bedtime and your nannies are becoming anxious. Say your goodnights and off to bed with the lot of you.”

“Goodnight.” England smiled, as he received a chorus of goodnights, kisses upon the cheek from the remaining conscious girls, and watched as George III received his due bows, curtseys and goodnight kisses from his children as they filtered out the door to where their nannies no doubt waited. 

“We shall come see you in the morning.” Charlotte pressed another kiss to his forehead and England bid his Queen and King goodnight. It was a good thing too as England felt a wave of exhaustion come over him. Scooting down the bed, England grasped at the warmth in his chest left over from the children's visit. It was a good temporary bandage from the pain that had landed him there in the first place. 

It kept his head above water. A reminder that he was still cherished, still needed and that there were those who still loved him enough not to betray him. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The flag America is referring to in the end of his scene is the Grand Union which was in use by the Continental Army between 1775 - 1777: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grand_Union_Flag
> 
> The song "Rule Brittania" that America starts playing accidentally on the Armonica (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Glass_harmonica) was popularized in 1740 and was strongly associated with the British Army and Navy during the time - https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rule,_Britannia%21
> 
> There is a lot of interesting things to learn about George III and his family who are present in England's scene. We recommend you check them out!


	7. A Proper War Begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> England hires Hessian mercenaries to increase the numbers of his troops, striking a deal with Hesse himself. America takes on 30,000 British troops during the invasion of New York.

_July 1776_

_London, England_

England tucked the blood-stained handkerchief into his pocket. He felt terrible, but was at least up and walking. It was pure will that had gotten him out of his sick bed. He needed to be involved in the plan to suppress America’s insurrection. He adjusted the cuff on his jacket, tugging at a stray thread. He would need to get it taken in, the thinness of his body was starting to show through his clothes.

A footman entered the room. “He is here, Lord Kirkland.” 

“Send him in and send word to the kitchens to send up luncheon for two.”

“He has a boy with him, should I prepare for three?”  

_A boy?_ England frowned, curious about the added party when he had specifically mentioned he wanted this whole affair kept as quiet as possible. The footman disappeared through the door to be replaced by Hesse’s tall body. Like the other German brothers he was light-haired which he wore pulled to the nape of his neck. The cut of his uniform pasted it to him, the very picture of a mercenary soldier. For just a moment England's eyes rested on Hesse’s scar that marred the right side of his face. It was the topic of much speculation among the nations regarding who had put it there. Hesse wouldn’t talk about it no matter how much beer he’d been plied with. England’s speculation was short lived when a lanky teenager entered the room. 

For a gut clenching moment England saw America. This boy was of similar height and width in the shoulder. However the expression was far too stoic for America and the eyes were the wrong shade of blue. It took England a moment to connect this boy to the small child that Hanover and Prussia had brought to his house so many years before.

Getting control of himself, England offered a hand for Hesse to shake. “Thank you for coming.”

“If you’ve got the coin, I’ve got the soldiers.” Hesse replied, shaking England’s hand. “You recall my younger brother--”

“Germany, of course. I must say you have grown quite a bit since the last time I saw you.” The boy took his hand. 

“Thank you.” Germany said, not quite meeting England’s eye. England gestured them to the chairs and they all took a seat. England couldn’t seem to take his eyes off Germany. How did they grow so quickly so fast?

Hesse cleared his throat and deliberately reached into England’s eye line for a the waiting teapot, breaking whatever spell had come over him. “They grow fast don’t they, the younger nations. Far faster than we did. I think it’s because we did all the hard work.” Germany narrowed his eyes at his elder brother and Hesse grinned at him.

“I would agree with you.” England said, drinking deeply from his tea cup to quell the cough he could feel growing in his chest.

“Perhaps, it was a lack of discipline and modern thinking in the past that blocked the progress and growth.” said Germany. Both older nations raised their eyebrows at him and the boy looked away back to his food. Hesse broke the silence with a laugh.

“A little rebellious aren’t they?” Hesse said. England met the baiting look in Hesse’s eye. He was not going to rise to the provocation.

“Indeed.”

“Your little brother has declared independence and you don’t want to give it to him?”

“He is a colony, not a nation. He needs to remember his place. I need additional forces so this can be over quickly. I expect it will take one campaign season based on his access to weapons and munitions.”

Hesse leaned over to Germany, “Take this as a lesson, don’t let your holdings get any ideas.” Germany nodded and England felt his ire rise.

“While I appreciate your men and arms, I don’t remember hiring you for unsolicited opinions on how I build my empire.” Hesse seemed to find that amusing and leaned back in his seat. He sat for several minutes, not saying another word. England felt eyes on him and caught Germany staring at him now. The little boy that had been dragged around by several nations was just starting to show the lines he would have as a mature nation. He was ensconced by his brothers and finally gaining some stability. He reminded England so much of America that the wracking cough caught him by surprise. _Damn._ He hadn’t wanted any of the others to know that America’s rebellion was affecting him physically.

“Interesting.” Hesse said, as England buried his mouth in his handkerchief, wiping away the trickle of blood. “So what role exactly do you want me to play in all this?”

“I will be arriving by the end of the year. I would like you to accompany your troops and if the opportunity arises, I would like you to locate America and capture him. He and I have a very unpleasant conversation to have.”

“I expect. You haven’t heard the gossip have you?”

“Gossip?”

“Come now. Everyone knows about America’s rebellion on the Continent. You should hear France go on about it.”

“I prefer not to listen to France if I can help it.”

“Another thing for you to learn, Germany, don’t get in bed with your neighbors. It makes things messy. Don’t sleep with your colonies either.”

England slammed his tea cup into his saucer with such force the entire table rattled. Two pairs of German blue eyes widened at him. “Of course the Frog’s mind would consider _that_ as the problem rather than America having delusions of grandeur and opinions above his station.”

Hesse snorted. “Shame. It brought to mind such an image.”

England sighed. “Doesn’t the Continent have better things to do than speculate on whom I may or may not be in bed with?”

“Not much to do when there is no war on. And I know that you are dying to know who is in bed with who these days. Take your mind off your boy as he twists the knife in your back.”

“If that will be the topic of conversation I would prefer to be excused.” Germany interrupted, his face bright red.

“So innocent, _kleiner Bruder._ And here I would have thought that you would have gotten some education around… well, Hanover could tell you some stories…” Hesse gave England a sly look and England wondered why he was condemned to be constantly surrounded by idiotic, nosey allies. 

“Germany, you have no need to excuse yourself. That will _not_ be the subject of conversation.”

“In that case, why don't’ you tell me about America so that I can better plan how to fight him.” The mirth that had been on Hesse’s face when he teased England had disappeared, leaving only the hardened soldier that he’d become famous for. England swallowed and America’s face flashed at the forefront of his mind. The young face was battered and bloody. Instead of joy and curiosity, this imagined America’s eyes were full of fear. England hardened himself to the possibility of that future. 

_You brought this on yourself, my darling boy…_ He coughed and began to tell Hesse all that he would need to know in order to put America in his place.

***

_August 1776_

_Long Island, New York_

_The Invasion of Long Island and Manhattan_

America frowned over the letters. “I think you did the right thing, General Washington. If they don’t have respect for us we shouldn’t respect them either.”

“Not that we were going to surrender, like General Howe was so hoping. We will prove ourselves to them.” Washington turned back to his papers and America studied him in profile. General Washington was certain that England’s troops were going to invade. The only question was where they would strike first. America turned back to the letters that General Howe had sent. The words made his frown deepen and his anger rise. Howe had no respect for him whatsoever and refused to acknowledge that Washington was his American equivalent as Commander in Chief. Howe would only refer to him as Mr. Washington in the correspondence. America’s generals had decided it was better to send them back until General Howe at least conceded to treat them properly. He still hadn’t, and now they were waiting for the invasion.

“America, I’d like you to go to Long Island see what help you can offer General Greene.”

America nodded and picked up his hat placing it on his head, “I’ll go at once, General Washington.”

When he arrived at Long Island he learned that General Nathanael Greene had taken ill and General John Sullivan was now commanding the troops. They were waiting to see where the British would make their move. Washington thought it would be York Island, but General Sullivan wasn’t so sure. America decided he wanted to see what was going on for himself.

He made his way towards the coast, finding high ground to observe the British that had been slowly amassing all summer. They had been coming even before he declared independence, but it seemed that action opened a flood gate. He counted the warships again, the smaller ships of the line too numerous to count. 

Seventy-three. He’d heard they carried 32,000 British soldiers, not to mention the Hessian mercenaries. He wondered if Hesse was among them. Would he know him when he saw him? America wasn’t even quite sure where Hesse’s country was. Why had England still not come? Did he think America so insignificant an enemy that he would not come himself? That thought made him uneasy. Although he had never asked England directly about it, America knew his reputation in other wars. They all did. 

_He’s been defeated before, even if it was a long time ago… I can stop him. I have to._ America assured himself, trying to remember the last time the British conclusively lost a war. What had Dr. Franklin said? That America had broken the cardinal rule of warfare. _Always let the British win…_ America smiled remembering the way the elderly man had said it to scoffs from some of the other members of the Continental Congress after Lexington and Concord. Back then there had still been a possibility of staying British. That was not an option now.

America returned to camp. Day after day passed with little action, and it put his teeth on edge. Patience was not his strong suit. He was half-tempted to go see if he could find Hesse, somewhere out on those ships and demand why England wouldn’t come and face him. _Why won’t you_ do _anything?_ America wondered one night, climbing into his cot and getting ready to face the next day.

It was early in the morning on August the twenty-fourth when America jolted out of his dreams. It was the one he’d had before with England stabbing him in the chest. _May the sword of the parent not be stained with the blood of her child…_ the Loyalists liked to say. Maybe that was it, he thought, they were pulling him still with their feelings towards the war. He looked at the dark canvas, it was still several hours before dawn. 

No, something else was wrong he could feel it in his stomach. He remembered the feeling from a long, long time ago. It was the sense of another nation stepping onto his lands. But, it wasn’t England. It must be Hesse with the British troops, America decided. He was being invaded.

He jumped out of bed, pulling on the rest of his clothes and hurrying toward General Sullivan’s tent. One of his men went to fetch him at the sight of America looking so harried.

“What is it?” Sullivan asked. 

“I think they’ve made their move. Something feels off, there’s another nation here.”

“England?”

“No, I think it’s Hesse with his mercenaries.” Sullivan swore and sent men to wake up the regimental commanders and order them to get their men ready. America raised an eyebrow at the string of language that came out of the man’s mouth. America wondered if he talked that way around Washington and whether or not he got away with it with the gentleman general.

“America, do you want to fight?”

America felt excitement curl in his stomach, making his heart race. “Yes, of course.”

“Then go and get prepared.” The tent flap opened and a courier walked in. He saluted and Sullivan told him to speak.

“Our scouts have an estimate of the size of their force, sir. This appears to be the main body of men, the guess is 20,000 under the command of General Cornwallis.” America listened to the report with wide eyes. They were outnumbered nearly 4 to 1! 

“We’re going to have to move back to the fortification at Brooklyn Heights. We won’t be able to hold here. Get them moving!”

The sun was rising on them when they were getting the battle lines prepared for a defended retreat. None of the 20,000 men had come against them yet and it made America’s hair stand on end. Where were they? He strained his ears for the sounds of guns at any of the defended points along the routes. If they weren’t coming from that direction…? Oh no.

America turned his horse and ordered a group of men to come with him to check one more route. Few of their troops were from Long Island, and they wouldn’t have known about the route to the east. But the Loyalists on the island certainly did. 

They made their way to a rise. America’s stomach flipped. Thousands of red-coats and the multi-colored coats of the Hessian units were on the march below. 

He barely heard the movement before someone was on him, the soldiers accompanying him speared by bayonets before they could surrender. America tried to get out of the grip of the man that grabbed him from behind.

“Quiet down, I’m not going to hurt you. England is paying me well enough for that. I wanted to get a look at you since I doubt this will be the last time we meet.” His accent was German, America recognized it from his own people with that ancestry. 

“You’re Hesse?”

“So you’ve heard of me.” He chuckled, “That’s good.”

“You’re just a mercenary. You don’t care about me, just England’s money.”

“You’re right. That’s why I just want to have a chat with you. If I let you go do you promise to stay and talk?” America could see the Hessian soldiers going through the pockets of the men they’d just killed. 

“Tell them to stop and I’ll speak with you.” Hesse barked out an order that America only half understood. The soldiers faded into the trees, leaving them alone with each other and the dead men.

The arm around America’s neck loosened and he twisted, pushing back against Hesse so he could put some distance between them. He looked nothing like America had expected, although he had to admit that he’d met so few other nations. His blond hair was tied back and America wondered where he had gotten the scar running over his right eye and down over his cheek. Hesse smiled, amusement crossing his face, “You don’t look anything like him.”

“I’ve heard that before.” America crossed his arms, trying to stay out of arm’s reach of Hesse. The other nation had managed to wrench his musket off his back, leaving America unarmed. Hesse gestured at two stones that were in the small clearing. He sat, waiting for America to join him. 

“I’m not going to bite you, boy. Here.” he swung his pack off his back and rummaged around, finally coming up with some food wrapped in wax paper. He held it out. America hadn’t eaten that morning and his stomach grumbled at the presence of food. Hesse smiled. America frowned but took the offered food anyway. He sat down on the other rock and started in on it.

“I’ll have to send word back to my brother, he was curious about you.”

“Who is your brother?”

“I have many brothers. But the one who is curious about you is Prussia.”

“I know his name.”

“You should.”

“What’s that mean?”

“He’s not easy to forget. In fact, everyone is really interested in the upstart colony that thinks it will take on a nation who fancies himself the future ruler of the world.”

“Why are you helping him then?”

“Like you said, I don’t care about you or him, just the money. Why? Can you pay me more, America?” America looked away. Many of the generals had been financing the armament and the uniforms of the troops themselves with vague promises from Congress about being paid back. Hesse laughed. “I didn’t think so. Shame though, you have some resemblance to my own little brother.”

“Really?” America asked, curious. He jumped when the cannons started to blast. Hesse looked at him and America could sense the calculations that were going through the other nation’s mind.

“You better get back to your army before you get stuck out on the field.” Hesse stood up and offered America a hand up. America didn’t take it, which seemed to amuse Hesse even more. The German gathered up his equipment and turned to leave.

“Hesse, can I ask you a question?”

“What?”

“Is he going to come here? England?”

Hesse turned and faced him, America felt disconcerted at how cool the other nation’s blue eyes had gotten. He pushed a strand of long blond hair that had fallen across his forehead back over his ear. “Yes. He will be here before the year is out.”

A feeling washed through America, he couldn’t tell what it was. He just felt funny.

“You don’t know what you’ve done have you?” Hesse said, tossing America’s musket back at him. America caught it and looked at him.

“What do you mean?”

“This is going to be a hard lesson, boy. Good luck. Now run along before I have to deal with you as a prisoner.”

America hurried, managing to rejoin his bloodied and retreating troops as they got behind the barricades at Brooklyn Heights. The fight had been chaotic and America felt cold when he heard some of the men recount what Hesse’s men had done. 

_You don’t know what you’ve done…_  

America watched as the British began setting up their siege lines. Howe wasn’t going to push the attack. “Providence is on our side.” Washington said. “We will survive this, America.”

***

They were going to evacuate. They had to. Despite being joined with the main American force they were too few in number to face over 30,000 British and Hessian soldiers. America was up on the ramparts, making a good show of people being near the fortification as Washington oversaw everyone evacuating over the river. Night had fallen and the darkness was speeding them along.

America glanced at the retreat every now and then from the bobbing lanterns of the British settling in for a siege. They hadn’t been noticed, but there were still so many! Dawn was only a few hours away and if they were caught in the river when the sun rose… America didn’t want to think of the chances of the barges against the cannons on the British vessels. America could feel the anxiety growing, building.

He didn’t know when he had fallen asleep, but he awoke to someone shaking him. “You’re with me, America.” It was Washington’s voice, America could barely see the tall man’s outline thanks to the thick fog that had descended all around them. Daybreak was just upon them, but the British did not seem to think anything was amiss. 

They were safe on the other side of the river.

***

_Early October 1776_

_London, England_

England was beginning to lose any semblance of patience he had left. He could barely abide any human contact. King George would not give him leave to go to America, to look his colony in the face and declare him foolish, drag him back to loyalty using whatever means necessary. England glanced at his monarch, wondering if the man could feel his nation’s gaze on the back of his head. The royal family listened to the small orchestra play some piece from one of Austria’s prodigal composers. He’d sent the sheet music to England weeks ago, no doubt to brag. This composer was from Salzburg and was only twenty years old, Mozart or something? It was certainly different, but England could barely focus on the music.

The violins began and England couldn’t seem to tear his mind away from a cold winter’s morning when he’d first handed America the instrument. What he’d lacked in talent for music he made up for with enthusiasm, although any time he laid hand on a sheet of music he’d added something of his own personality. Simple sounds, but charming none the less. Did America still play? _Most likely not, not since he’d begun this traitorous rebellion._ England thought. The small smile that England had worn at the start of the memory dashed to pieces, as much as any seafaring vessel shattered itself on unseen rocks. _Damn it all._ He couldn’t tolerate standing here when he might lose him. 

He was about to take a step forward to make excuses to the king when a servant appeared bearing a sealed letter on a silver plate. He recognized the seal immediately. It was from Hesse. He took the missive and stepped away from the group of courtiers. Out of the corner of his eye he could see one of France’s men watching him, so England decided to step into the next room where the servants were setting out the meal for when the performance was over.

He tore open the seal and began to read.

_England,_

_We have made a successful invasion of New York and now control the entirely of York City and Long Island. During the invasion I met with America…_

England frowned. What on earth had Hesse done that for? He had been ordered to capture him, not talk to him!

_...to give him the opportunity of surrender which he declined. Upon the initial invasion the American units moved back to their fortifications at Brooklyn Heights. We could not immediately attack due to orders from your man Howe who seemed concerned about a second Bunker Hill…_

England could sense Hesse’s disdain in the letter. However, he could understand why Howe would be cautious. America’s soldiers had shown themselves unwilling to surrender on several occasions and became all the more vicious for it.

_...When we prepared to lay siege we noticed something odd at first light. We could not see any movement behind the ramparts and when soldiers made the approach they met no challenge. Apparently, the entire American force managed to slip away in the night…_

England had to read the words twice before the statement sunk in. America had slipped away in the night with thousands of men and no one had seen a bloody thing?!

_...We were not able to pursue as they had taken or burned every boat capable of navigating the river. However, we were able to capture Kip’s Bay uncontested as the militia fled as soon as they saw us. Between all of the retreats I thought it would be a good time to approach the kid again. However, before I got a chance one of your idiot companies managed to stumble right into the main American force and ran back dogged by American musket and cannon fire. I must say, the boy’s spirit bounces back quickly…_

England’s frown deepened. Hesse was impressed, he didn’t outright say it, but the sentiment was there. America in all his rash, unprepared bravado was impressing nations far older than himself. A small part of England felt a surge of pride, but he crushed it as soon as it rose. If only America had turned these admirable qualities on a proper enemy.

_...Part of the city caught fire the other night. Each side is blaming the other. I am primarily annoyed with the loss of a most accommodating brothel. We hung a spy, although the man became a martyr within the day on the American side._ My only regret is I have only one life to give for my country, _they say he said. I wasn’t there so I don’t know if it’s true, but it has a certain ring to it…_

That it does, England thought. He ran a hand through his hair, clenching his fingers and tugging on the short strands until it hurt. There had been that one night in New York during the Seven Years War. America had been curled up next to him in the narrow farmhouse bed promising that he’d fight as hard as he could for his home. He was too good at keeping his word.

_...The other boy, Canada, came down trying to help. I sent him back to his own lands. You can deal with him if you want when you arrive. You know what it’s like to fight your own brothers. Boy looked like he was going to faint at any moment. Probably doesn’t help that America has burned down some of his border towns…_

England’s fingers tightened on the paper. Canada. He’d completely forgotten about him. The letters Canada had been sending were in a pile on the corner of his writing desk. He’d been so absorbed with military and political correspondence that he just didn’t have the time. Was America really burning his border towns? That seemed so odd because the boys seemed so close...

_...Howe is planning an attack on the Continental supply lines come October. I doubt America will let it stand. I look forward to your arrival before winter fully sets in. I have some grievances I would like to put to you in person about the treatment of my troops._

_On a more personal note, tell Hanover to send me some real soldiers next time, not just some men he pressganged and expects me to train. In fact, the same goes for you._

_Sincerely,_

_Hesse_

The time had come, England knew it. He couldn’t wait any longer. He was going to tell His Majesty that he needed to handle this personally and would not rely on others to see it done. He sank into a chair, crumpling the letter in his hand.

A cough caught him by surprise and he slipped sideways onto the floor. The spasm gripped him and he tasted blood in his mouth. Spots swam in front of his eyes and blackness dragged him down.

***

The tips of the wheat stalks brushed his shoulders as he walked through the field. It was nearing the harvest, the first hints of the coming winter on the air.

They were playing hide and seek. America had promised he wouldn’t go beyond the edge of the field, but England still hadn’t been able to find him.

“America!” England called, hoping the child would call off the game. He called his name again, but America still didn’t answer. England kept walking, pushing aside the heavy heads of nearly ripe grain. AT any rate, America would get hungry at some point and come wandering back to the house. He would be grumpy that England didn’t find him, but, like always, he would forgive him. He would stretch out on the rug with his toy soldiers and ask England to tell him stories.

The ground squished under his boots as he went onward, deciding he would stop at the trees and then circle back. He brushed aside a few stalks and came to a break in the crops. Wheat had changed to corn. In the small space was America, curled up under a blanket with his arms forming a pillow. His face was unguarded and filled with confidence that he was safe sleeping there. A portrait of innocence that England was loathe to disturb. He tucked his hands into his pockets and just watched him for a few minutes. The weight of the world seemed to slide off his shoulders and he felt at peace. He knelt down and picked America up. The child didn’t even stir, just a warm, sleepy weight in England’s arms.

The scene faded, transforming into the farmhouse bed they had shared in 1756, America’s spindly teenage body pressed unconsciously against England’s back. He could feel America’s warm breath through his night shirt, even in sleep. England shifted, turning so he could watch his face as he slept. His face still had that unguarded quality, although a cloud lingered on his face now due to the war. England touched the crease between America’s eyebrows.

The blue eyes flew open and America’s hands clasped around England’s throat. He climbed on top of him and bore down with all of his strength.

England jolted upright in his bed startling a maidservant so badly that she ran from the room. He took deep gulps of air and then coughed again. A droplet of blood dripped from his lips and stained the linens of his bed. 

“This has to end.” he said, his voice cracking. He would leave. Soon.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the long gap between chapters everyone! There was a lot going on for shuriken7 and otakuashels during the latter half of the summer. We hope to be more consistent in the future!
> 
> If you enjoyed the story please leave a kudo or comment and be sure to check out our other fics!


	8. Weary Minds and Aching Hearts

October 1776  
London, England  
Houses of Parliament

“Parliament is full of Pudding-headed fellows!” George barked. Arthur started as the double doors into his study slammed against the walls. Clutching at his collar the island nation gave the now ink splattered parchment a forlorn look. He would have to start over. Placing the quill back into the pot. Arthur sighed, leaning back against his chair watching the monarch storm about the room, more insults spilling from his mouth as he paced. “ Traitors” he snapped A traitor is everyone who does not agree with me! England recalled the words the man had spoken not long ago in front of the entire Parliament, demanding that they make a decision. 

George turned around and strode back to the double doors, slamming them shut. “I should not have to shut these bloody things on my own!” he screamed. “I am second only to God and his angels and I have to close my own fucking door!” He kicked the offending objects.

“Sire-”

“No!” he interrupted. “Knavery seems to be so much a the striking feature of its inhabitants that it may not in the end be an evil that they will become aliens to this kingdom.” His fist slammed against the table. 

“Sire-”

“The Coercive Acts were going to get things done! All that we needed to do was hold them! I cannot afford another war!” he snapped and gave a warning glare at England as the blond attempted to step in again. “Once vigorous measures appear to be the only means left of bringing the Americans to a due submission to the mother country, the colonies will submit. I can never suppose this country so far lost to all ideas of self-importance as to be willing to grant America independence; if that could ever be adopted I shall despair of this country being ever preserved from a state of inferiority and consequently falling into a very low class among the European States.” he ranted.

“Yes…” England relented, knowing that it was going to release the floodgates. He watched that manic glint enter into the monarch's eyes. Clasping his hands together he rested his chin across his knuckles, eyes following the ranting King. Honestly, he stopped listening. The man would start on his own topic and then it would eventually dissolve into random burst of anger and fury and the ending argument would be so far from the start that it might as well have been across the sea. 

“And I said to him,” he growled, “Lord Chancellor, did I deliver the speech well? I am glad of that, for there was nothing in it”

Rubbing his temple England held back a sigh. Glancing out the window told him that the sun was soon going to sink below the horizon. Leaning across the table he turned on the oil lamp, bathing the pair into a wash of light. Ah, there, George was no long pacing, now he was standing, one foot tapping angrily, hands rubbing roughly at this cheeks. That symbolized George was just about done with his fit.

Even as a child George has always been slightly erratic in nature and for a while he had hoped that the monarch would grow out of such behavior. But it had been for naught, and the fits seemed to escalate in frequency as the problems with the colonies only seemed to further irritate the man. Some days it even seemed that Charlotte was at the end of the road with George’s behavior, and that woman had the patience of a Saint.

“Arthur...what are we going to do?” The exhaustion in the question caught the nation's attention. He watched as George dropped his heavy set form into the chair opposite him. 

“Born and educated in this country, I glory in the name of Briton.” he whispered, anger draining out of the man. No longer was he a king filled with demand and importance, but a middle aged man in much need of sleep and relief.

“ Sire…” The insurgence was really taking a toll on the man. Lines that he did not remember seeing on George's face were deepened by the flickering shadows. Arthur understood completely, a little too much for his tastes. It was not only George's health that had been declining ever since the rebellion had begun. At first, Arthur was certain that it was merely his heart that was going to be affected, but the pain was manifesting physically now. “It will be taken care of George.” Arthur found himself saying. And he wasn’t sure if he said it to calm George or if he was saying it to reassure himself. But it didn’t really matter, something had to be done regardless.

***

October 1776  
Berkshire, England  
Windsor Castle

England walked down the hallways of Windsor Castle, grateful for the lack of the court. Between the words of Hesse and the generals, things were not going well in North America. America had a stubborn streak wider than his own it seemed. Damn him. He would need to prepare to leave, an soon.

England paused, reaching for the small locket he had kept in his pocket for longer than he cared to admit. The silver clasp stuck for a moment, had it been long since he opened it? He could not remember. Looking up at him was a miniature portrait of America when he was small. What had happened between this innocent young colony and the self-declared young nation that was doing his utmost to sever all ties with him.

“Ah, they told me that I would find you here, mon ami.” England whirled around, wishing he had a pistol at his side. France strolled down the hallway, his waistcoat in a fashionable cut that was flashy with its embroidered accoutrements. France’s king had expensive tastes and apparently the country was following suit. 

“How did you get in here?” England did little to cover the distaste that coated his words. Meeting the French country at ‘diplomatic’ meeting was a duty he suffered through with little complaint. But having to deal with the Frog outside of such times? Often, he wondered if drowning might be a pleasant alternative.

“The same way most visitors do, ask for an audience with the all powerful United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, although I did have to specify the most disagreeable member of the kingdom.” The way he said ‘all powerful’ and ‘disagreeable’ made England’s blood boil at the sarcastic inflection.

“That’s fine and all.” England’s lips pursed, a physical attempt at corralling his annoyance. “But how did you find out where I was?”

“Scotland told me.”

“I thought he wasn’t speaking to you after the debacle of his last rebellion.”

“You forget, Angleterre, I did give him the money. He knows it is not my fault that you are a brute.” England clenched his fists. “I suppose I should get back to business.”

“If you would.”

France took a few steps closer, England matching his actions in reverse. “I hear your America has learned how much of an overbearing brute you are... and has decided to leave you.” Blood rushed into England’s face. France grinned and England had his fingers in that embroidered waistcoat before his mind caught up with his actions. France didn’t even seem perturbed when England shoved him so hard into the wall the portraits shook on their hooks. 

“What of it, frog?”

“I wanted to know what you did to him.” he hissed. “Did you take advantage of him after all?” England slammed him hard into the wall again and France grabbed him by the wrists, his fingers digging into England’s flesh. “Hit a nerve did I?”

“I didn’t do a damned thing to him. He is making a fuss over nothing.”

“And you didn’t believe me when I said they weren’t as loyal as we would have hoped for.” England stared into France’s face, a nasty smile to match France’s came over his lips.

“Oh, but you see Canada isn’t in rebellion. He’s loyal to me, when I arrive in North America to deal with America’s rabble he is going to be by my side. What do you think of that, France?” England said, a vindictive grin spreading over his features. France’s face soured, the challenging smile losing its luster. He shoved England’s hands from his clothes. He stood there, back drawn up and straightened his silks and fine linens. 

“I think you are far too confident you will get your boy back.”

“He doesn’t have any weapons or a navy. He will run out of what ammunition he has eventually and will have no choice. America will learn his mistake and I will have him back.” France glanced at him, the smile going back up a notch. England crossed the space between them again and thrust a finger in France’s face. “And if you do anything to interfere you will regret it.”

France reached up an elegant hand and took England’s fist in his palm. He pressed a kiss to England’s knuckles, his grip turning to stone when England tried to yank his hand back. “I regret a lot of things, but some I never will.” He let go of England then and brushed past him to go back the way he came. England considered following him, chasing him and demanding to know what he was plotting.

“I mean it France, you get involved in this and you will be sorry!” he shouted after the other nation. France lifted a hand as though to bat a fly that was buzzing around his head. “Damn it all.” England muttered, turning away from the retreating Frenchman. He would need to leave a note for His Majesty to send word to King Louis XVI that he better not be planning to send any assistance to the so-called United States of America. 

He wouldn’t stoop so low as to get his revenge over his loss in the Seven Years War by using America, would he? England felt a chill go through him at the thought. France was good at waiting for his moment, and America may have given him one. They had twisted the knife in each other more than once over their long history together, but never over one of their own kind. Not like this.

“If he lets you incite him to further rebellion he’ll be sorry.” England said to himself, his words echoing in the emptiness of the hall. “America’s rebellion is not my fault.” he said under his breath, hoping with more iterations he would finally believe it. Needless, he would fix it. Do something to fix the mess the mess they were all inside of. He had to. He had promised George and himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Much of George's dialogue in this chapter are actual quotes


	9. We Meet At Last

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The British are poised to attack Fort Washington, in order to gain access to the Hudson River. America senses that something has changed...
> 
> England has come.

_November 15, 1776_

_Manhattan Island_

_Fort Washington_

America leaned on the wall of the fort and stared down the Hudson river into the distance. He knew they were out there, the British forces. They had been combing over the lands that he’d had to abandon. He was tired of being in retreat. He had to start winning again soon, shouldn’t he? Ever since he’d declared independence it had been major losses, punctuated here and there by small victories. 

Washington had told him to stay here, where he would be safe as he engaged the British on the field of White Plain. America couldn’t decide if he was all right with the fact he wasn’t with his soldiers when they were chased off that field. America stood up and began pacing. He knew that there was a company of British and Hessian troops not far away. They had been left to watch him and the fort. There had been American troops joining every day since the defeat at White Plain, the garrison had nearly doubled in number since then. Three thousand men inside the walls of Fort Washington from all across the colonies.

America couldn’t help but have his spirits lifted a little at that thought. His people were getting along, more or less anyway. 

America watched the horizon where he knew the British encampment lay. Something was different. He could feel it deep down. There was a different feeling coming from the army that was invading. _Could England have…?_

He was interrupted in the thought by the arrival of Colonel Robert Magaw, a former lawyer from Philadelphia and now the commander of Fort Washington. He held a note in his hands. America reached for it, but, for just a moment, Magaw held it out of his reach.

“What is it?” America asked. 

“It’s a missive from General Howe. He has informed us of his intent to attack and has requested we surrender.” 

America rolled his eyes. “When is he going to realize that we are not going to surrender just because he asks politely?” _So British…_ America found himself thinking. He reached for the letter and then stopped. When had he stopped thinking of himself as British? Swallowing at the strange thought, he took the note. He began to read.

“Perhaps not as polite as he’s been in the past.”

America stared wide-eyed at the letter. “He’s threatening to kill us all if we don’t surrender?!”

“For what it’s worth, I would wager it is a bluff. General Washington would agree with me.” America looked up at Magaw and the man did seem unconcerned. So many of the generals thought they knew Washington’s mind, America was certain the only one who really knew was Washington himself. 

“Did you refuse?”

“I told him we would defend the fort to the last extremity.”

“Good. When do you think they will attack?”

“They will likely do as they always do.”

“Attack at dawn.” America said. Magaw nodded. They exchanged a few more words and Magaw took his leave. America watched his back, he knew Magaw was stinging from the desertion of his adjutant. The man had likely fled the fort straight into the arms of the British with all the details. They were compromised. America felt a flash of anger at the betrayal. They may be losing right now but the tide would turn! He was in the right! Providence was on his side.

He ran a hand through his hair and leaned back on the fort wall. Watching. Waiting. Hoping the strange feeling that had taken root around his heart would disappear.

***

_November 16, 1776_

_British Encampment_

It was cold that morning, that was for certain. Keeping his hands deep in the pockets of his woolen coat England watched his breath in tendrils through the air, disappearing as it rose the sky. Gave him a craving for his pipe, but now was not the time. Later, after they dealt with his latest crop up of rebels. He had arrived only days ago, racing a storm into the safety of land.

“M’Lord?”

 “Lieutenant General William Howe.” England responded, turning to the face the stocky man stationed behind him in a rigid salute. “At ease, and walk with me.” He wanted that pipe, why wait when he was certain that he would be celebrating a victory very soon? Keeping a leisurely pace the pair strode through the camp that buzzed with the activity of a morning preparing for battle.

“I take it you slept well, M’Lord. Anything I can do for you?”

“I am content as can be with the situation at hand.” Arthur shrugged away the man's aim to please. Blinking hard against the morning sun that rose slowly through the sky, it was probably cold too, he turned his full attention to his general.

“I take it preparations are going well?”

“Of course.”

“An update if you would.” England murmured. It wasn't that he really needed one, but in all truth he hadn’t slept that well last night. He’d woken time and time again with a heavy feeling in his chest. An ache of tarnished familiarity that refused to let sleep pull him into her sweet embrace. 

“The fort is currently manned by the troops of General Nathanael Greene and Colonel Robert Magaw, we have good reason to believe that we out man them significantly. As per your order we will attack tomorrow morning with a 3 split assault.”

“And?

“And...” Howe stuttered, a look of worry crossing his features as he struggled to figure out what he had forgotten “M’Lord?”

“And.” England interrupted, hands clasping behind his back. Swiveling on one heel he planted himself firmly in the General’s path. “And quickly, with no delay and with little to no soldiers wounded you shall bring me a crushing defeat to this blasted rebel forces. By nightfall of the 16th, I shall be sitting in my new Fort writing a dispatch regaling our success with a strong cup and a smoking pipe. All prepared to sleep within four walls standing firm than a wind shaken tent.” England watched as relief flashed across Howe’s features before a confident grin turned half his mouth up.

“Yes, of course.” The man snapped into a rigid salute. “Permission, M’Lord, to leave and make sure that our preparations lead us without a doubt to such an outcome.”

“Granted.” England shoved his hands back in his pockets and watched the middle aged Brit head off with purpose in his step.

“M’Lord.” Howe stopped once more and turned towards the personification of his nation. The United Kingdom looked to be a lad of no more than 20 years of age and yet he stood here on the battlefield, summoning forces and guiding the directions of the nation. He had met the personified England when was barely starting his military training, the man had seemed happier then. Now it seemed that England was growing thin, bags taking a permanent station beneath eyes that reminded him of the homeland. “M’Lord.” he repeated “Are you certain that you're all right?” He watched as surprise spread over the adolescent’s face. 

“I...of course, Howe. Like I said I am as all right as I can be in such times.” England smiled. Howe’s sudden display for his welfare had caught him off guard. “I will be fine.”

“Of course...but do let me know if you need anything.” Howe nodded and headed off, soldiers immediately swarming up to him. They had stopped just shy of his tent, on purpose of course. Ducking inside England briefly shucked his gloves, grabbing a wooden box from his nightstand. Humming to himself lightly he began to the methodical process of stuffing his pipe. Everything was going to go well. There was no other option.

“I’ll see you soon, America.”

***

_Outside Fort Washington_

_7:00 am_

America needed to get a better vantage point and he couldn’t do it with the noise inside the walls of the fort. The bombardment had begun. The fort was being assaulted from three sides. The Hessian artillery was firing on Laurel Hill, trying to destroy the cannons there so they could not keep ships from sailing up the river. A British and Hessian force had brought up more artillery right before dawn and were now firing on the south side of the fort, trying to destroy the guns that had crippled two British frigates two days before. 

It was the ship on the Hudson that drew his attention. It was in the river to the west. The fort was too high, but it was blasting its balls and shells into the American entrenchments. It was giving cover fire to the British force gathering below Fort Lee. America wondered if his agitation was from the knowledge that thousands of men were waiting to cross the river to join the thousands that were already arrayed against his three thousand in the fort. No, that wasn’t it. There was something different. He had not been able to shake the feeling since a few days ago and now it had grown into a fever pitch.

He told himself it was his imagination when he’d first sensed it. He’d been running from Hesse, pushed from battlefield to battlefield, forced into retreat more times than he wanted to admit. Years ago this feeling would have been a comforting one, an exciting one. It was the feeling he would get when England was near. Now, it just made him feel fidgety and sick.

_Where are you?_ He moved quietly over the land, trying to get to somewhere where the guns merely echoed, not the deafening cacophony of being directly in the line of fire. He clutched his spy glass to his chest, trying not to think that it was one England had given him years before. He found a spot on the cliffs of Manhattan Island where he could get a clear view of the _HMS Pearl._

The glass slid open with a click and America put it to his eye, slowly adjusting the optics until he could see the shapes of men on the deck. They were slightly obscured by the smoke of cannon fire. America scanned them, looking for some tell tale sign.

On the first pass he didn’t see anything, his breath catching in his chest. He lowered the glass and the men on deck returned to specks of red in the distance. Wait. There was another person that had come up onto the deck to stand near the captain. The feeling in his chest stirred again.

He looked again, adjusting the spy glass. His hands started to shake.

“England, you’re here.” America said, the words on his lips drowned out by cannon fire and a whistling November wind.

***

“Now this lads is what it means to go to battle!” England shouted above the wind, the waves pushing them forward and the loud conversations of his men. Striding across the deck a surge of adrenaline washed over any sort of worry that had been drowning him that morning. The only thing that would drown him today would be God himself! The English nation leapt onto the the forecastle deck, ship hands moving out of his way. The wind was cold and biting, turning any exposed skin a ruddy red. Hair pressed back against his skull, England made no effort to straighten the now knotted locks. It would be futile. This was the way battle was to be, atop the waves and at the mercy of her beck and call. Grabbing the slack rope of the fore stay sail he planted his boot firmly at the base of the bow. He would have loved to lean against the jib but the water was too rough that morning to risk anything of such nature. Closing his eyes England breathed deeply, letting the rush of air flood his senses. It was there, that niggling feeling. He was certain now, the boy was at the fort. 

Opening his eyes his jaw clenched as he stared up at the fort. Sometimes children had to learn the hard way. Raising one arm a silence fell over the ship, only punctured by the vessel herself and those last few men reaching their cannons. Grinning wildly he closed his eyes once again, clothing snapping against his skin, lending its own noise to the shouts of men and sea. The chill of the river’s air bit viciously through his clothing. Familiarity. Opening his eyes once again he trained them on the fort. He was positive now. America was inside. Chest swelling with an inhale he dropped his arm. “Fire!” he shouted.

***

_North Approach to Fort Washington_

_12:00 pm_

They were coming from all sides! America crouched behind a boulder, the hard stone grounding him to his lands. The cold metal of the rifle barrel chilled his hands. He was waiting for a sound. He knew the Hessians were approaching, he had seen Hesse himself in the distance. The Maryland and Virginia rifleman crouched in similar positions. They were to keep the company from advancing.

It had been hard to draw his eyes away from the river. The knowledge that England was down there, firing volley after volley into the defensive lines, filled him with dread. He could remember a few of the battlefields he’d seen when England had fought France. The knowledge shook him to the core. America knew England was probably filled with annoyance that he could not get a vantage to fire at the fort from the river, the fort was too high on the hill. The random shots of snipers in the forest were nearly drowned out by the barrage of the artillery battery from the south. He could hear just the trace of a bagpipe on the wind. A Highlander regiment must be approaching from somewhere. 

America leaned around the edge of the boulder. He could see the Hessian helmets now, arranged in a perfect target as they advanced. He shifted, leveling the barrel of the rifle towards the enemy. He took a deep breath and selected his target. The ghost of England’s touch correcting his shot made him nearly drop the gun. 

The gun had been different a hundred years ago, much heavier and less accurate when England had first taken him hunting. It had similar mechanisms: flint, ramrod, and trigger. The first time the weapon had fired he’d missed the target entirely, but England had told him to try again. The rifle was nearly as long as he was tall at the time, so England had to help him with loading the black powder and ball. After a few more shots with England’s warm presence at his back he had hit the target every single time. At the end of the day they were cooking the rabbit he’d shot and he listened to stories until he’d fallen asleep.

America leaned the rifle against the ground and swiped at his eyes. He had to get control! England was here and it was what America had wanted, a chance to look England in the eye and tell him everything to his face.

Except now he had no words. Now that he was actually here, the last thing he wanted to do was see him.

He pressed the rifle butt against his shoulder and took aim once again. He squeezed his eyes shut as he pulled the trigger to keep the flash from burning his eyes. More pops erupted from the forest around him and Hessians at the edge of their ranks fell to the ground.

The fire continued at a nearly constant rate. The knowledge of England on the river faded with the reptivite motion of fire, reload, fire, reload. America fired shot after shot with the other riflemen. Despite their constant stream of musket fire, they were being pushed up the hill towards the fort. They didn’t have the numbers.

The rifle barrel cracked after a round and America threw it to the ground in frustration. With a cracked barrel the thing was useless, as likely to blow up on him as fire towards the enemy. He joined some of the other men whose rifles had failed. They leaned into large rocks and boulders, sending them down towards the Hessians. With enough momentum they could be as deadly as cannon balls.

They held out as long as they could, but when the flash of a bayonet charge came towards the final rampart, they had no choice but to flee to the fort.

The interior of Fort Washington was chaos, nearly three thousand men wondering what to do next. The chaos tore at America and he tried to keep his wits. _We’ve retreated before, Washington will come up with a plan._ America thought. He moved through the crowd to find Colonel Magaw.

“Jones, where are the Hessians?” Magaw asked as America stepped into the small earthen walled room.

“They’ve taken the northern redoubt, we were forced to retreat.” America replied.

“We’ve been dispersed along the river as well. Cornwallis has landed… any minute now a messenger will arrive demanding our surrender.” Magaw ran a hand through his hair. America could see the lawyer behind the soldier, a man trying to think on his feet when faced with a challenge.

“Where are the generals?” 

“They crossed to Fort Lee.” Magaw met America’s eyes. “This fort is lost. I have to find a way to get the men out.”

“Could we escape at night as we have done before?” America sat down on a straight back chair, trying to not panic. His fingers gripped the wood of the seat.

“I don’t know if we can hold out that long.” A knock at the door and a man in a Continental uniform announced there was a Hessian under a flag of truce seeking an audience. “Show him in.”

For the few heart pounding moments that it took the man to come into the fort, America worried it would be Hesse himself coming through the door. In the weeks since their brief meeting, America had realized that conversation had been a game to the other nation. Hesse had wanted America’s measure and he’d been trying to tear him down ever since. The door swung open, but it turned out to be only a man.

America listened as Magaw tried to negotiate for the soldiers to leave. The Hessian lieutenant did not give an inch. Another messenger, one America recognized as one of Washington’s, came and handed Magaw a dispatch. After reading it, Magaw glanced at America before turning back to the Hessian. “I need four hours to consider your proposal.”

Four hours would be just enough time for night to fall. America hoped the man would grant it to them. “ _Nein._ You have a half an hour.” the Hessian replied. He gave a meaningful glance to the ticking mantle clock and took his leave. As soon as he was gone, America jumped out his chair.

“What is in Washington’s message?” America asked.

Magaw looked down at the paper now crumpled in his hand. “He wants us to hold until nightfall. I think, if we tried, Howe might make good on his threat to slaughter us all. Even if we do make it to nightfall, we are surrounded on all sides. There won’t be an escape.”

“I’ll stand with the fort.” America said, straightening himself up. He would stand with his men as they surrendered.

“While I appreciate the sentiment, I don’t think you have a choice anymore than we do. We have to surrender.”

***

By 3:00 pm the surrender had been announced, and by 4:00 pm Hessian troops had entered the fort and raised the Union Jack. America watched his flag fall to the ground and he tried to keep the feeling of despair at bay. The enemy soldiers were busy divesting them of all their belongings. When one Continental private was not as quick as a Hessian would have liked he knocked the young man to the ground with a blow.

America had been trying to blend in, but when he saw it he couldn’t help but do something. “Leave him alone!” America pushed forward, his natural strength knocking many Hessians to the ground. A hand grabbed him by the back of his neck stock and dragged him off his feet backwards. 

Before he could see his attacker a fist met his cheek, knocking him to the ground and making his vision go black. He blinked and saw the toes of polished black boots. He barely registered Hesse before the nation planted one of those boots in America’s stomach. Pain blossomed from America’s middle. Never in his existence had he been struck by another nation and it hurt more than he would have imagined. Before he could even catch his breath Hesse had pulled him up by his hair and was pulling him away from the men. “Come along, America, I have some words for you.”

Hesse dragged America into a supply cache, shoving him into a crate and closing the door behind him. America pushed himself up, staring at the blood dripping from his face onto the wood. He wiped his split lip delicately on his sleeve and turned around. Hesse had removed his helmet and rested his musket by the door. His eyes were cold and America tensed. He waited to see if Hesse would come at him again.

“You know, America, you have quite pretty lands. I’ve become rather too intimate with them as you’ve shed my people’s blood. And my own.” America saw it now, the blood dripping down Hesse’s right side. He’d been grazed by a musket ball across his ribs. “Your aim was off.”

“You would have rather I’d shot you? Is that why you hit me?” Hesse took a few steps closer, an amused smile on his lips. The movement seemed casual and America relaxed, just a little. He shouldn’t have. In that moment, Hesse grabbed him and shoved him into the supplies. The corner of a wooden crate dug painfully into America’s hip, but was forgotten with the song of steel leaving leather. The long, sharpened length of a bayonet rested against America’s cheek.

“I hit you, _colony,_ to remind you of your place. At first I thought you and your little rebellion were amusing. You may not know this but we enjoy making each other squirm in Europe. You should have seen England at his palace.” The bayonet ghosted over America’s skin, making him afraid to move even a little. “I’m sure you are aware by now my business is war. And you, England coddled you and made you arrogant. You are so naive, America, it’s almost cute.”

Distracted by the sharp implement in Hesse’s right hand, America didn’t think about the left until the fist slammed into his ribs. His breath was knocked out of him and he gasped.

“Rules are just for show, for the semblance of civility.” Another blow made him feel sick. “England filled your head with the way we think about what we’ve done after we’ve already done it. The way humans write histories, not that they would know what happens between us nations.” Hesse hit America behind the ear and America fell to the ground. He tried to push himself up, but the strikes made him slow. He curled into a ball, his mind racing for a way to avoid or lessen the next blow. He felt dizzy and sick to his stomach. The door swinging open didn’t register until the newcomer spoke.

“Hesse! That is quite enough. I will take it from here.”

_England._

America couldn’t catch his breath. He didn’t move as one pair of boots stomped away and another pair came closer. The door closed with a click, lessening the noise of what went on outside the room.

America kept his eyes squeezed shut, afraid to look at him. A familiar hand touched his shoulder and America wondered if he would throw up. He felt overcome with England’s presence, torn between reflexive joy at seeing him and horror that he had come at last.

***

England looked over his shoulder at the floor, light slid underneath the wooden door and for a brief moment he watched for shadows. For any sign that the hard handed nation would be prowling around outside. Nothing. He would have a private word with the other in regards to his earlier behavior. He had told Hesse that America was to be off limits. The bastard needed to learn a lesson. Turning back around he heaved a sigh as he saw the bruises forming on the lad’s skin. “He has a temper that one...though he really shouldn't have let it out on you.” he murmured. From what he could tell, all the wounds were superficial. “America...can you look at me?” he breathed.

America didn’t move for a moment, his body still tense, defensive. A deep breath shook his body and then he opened his eyes, looked at him for a moment, and then away. “I didn’t… I didn’t think you would come.”

“Lad, I always come back...you know that.” England frowned, dropping one knee to the ground from his crouch. A much more comfortable position. He paused for a moment to gather his words. He had been certain that when he finally ran into the adolescent nation that he would give him the scolding of a lifetime. Now that he was presented with such an opportunity all his words wilted away.

Wincing, America pushed himself up off the floor and leaned heavily back against one of the nearby barrels. He touched his split lip and cringed. His uniform was dusty from having been thrown so haphazardly in the dirt and retreating through the woods even earlier. He wouldn’t meet England’s eye, but continued to stare at his shoes. “I used to think that.”

“Excuse--” England clenched his teeth, arms folding over his chest. He had to remind himself that he was indeed dealing with a teenager. Petulant and believing that the world was against him. The boy was much too big for him to throw him over his knee like he once did. But he was uncertain that the boy would listen. He had started a rebellion just because he wasn’t getting his way! “America…” he sighed “Are you going to look at me like a man or pout like a child in the corner?”

America’s brow furrowed and he dropped his hand from his mouth and the cut began to bleed again. He looked up and watched England for a moment, his eyes searching. Then he shook his head, as though in disbelief, but didn’t break eye contact. “I can’t believe… do you honestly believe this is me throwing a fit like a child? What was the phrase your King used? Baby birds in the nest crying out for mother bird and I’m angry because you weren’t quick enough to feed me?!”

Heaving another sighed England sized up the growing colony. Rising up he leaned against  the wall silent for a moment. Rolling his shoulders he crossed one leg over the other. At least the boy didn’t seem to be in too bad of shape. It seems as if any thinness to him was due to how fast he had been growing, not to malnourishment. He seemed to have escaped whatever illness seemed to be plaguing England. The court physician had pointed out his own weight loss, loss of energy and the trouble sleeping. The man had no clue if this was specifically nation related or not. Regardless, it seemed that America had managed to escape whatever it was. Dragging a knuckle along his chin he contemplated. “If not what is it then?”

Leaning back, America wrapped his arms around his ribs, the boot print from Hesse visible against the white waistcoat. “You read my Declaration didn’t you? You’re a tyrant and I’m exercising my right as free person to act as I see fit.” He looked away from England then, the small tell he’d always had that he wasn’t telling the whole truth.

England felt his anger spike once again “You are throwing a tantrum.” he said stiffly “You are upset that you didn’t get your way. And that tantrum is getting people killed. That’s what you’re exercising right now, lad. The ability to get people killed.” He knew it was harsh. But this was a serious matter and nothing good would come of coddling the boy. He had done that for too long, and it had gotten him nothing.

  
“And who ordered the battalion here? You.” America looked back at him. “It’s all your fault. I guess I should have expected it, you’ve never listened to me.”

“What am I to listen to?” He pushed off the wall and walked towards America. “You just insulted me and that was it.”

America watched him for a moment and then pushed himself up, gritting his teeth against the pain in his midsection. He drew himself up as best as he could. He was taller than England now, thought not by much. “You heard and saw what you wanted to see.”

England looked him over, the footprint a tell tale sign of Hesse’s temper. “Lift up your shirt America.” he ordered. “Let me look at the wound.”

He didn’t make a move, just stared at England. “No, I’ll be fine.”

“America.” his voice softened. “Let me look at it...please.”

“England…” America’s arms dropped to his sides and he shifted on his feet. He opened his mouth to say something more, but closed it without a word. He steadied himself up off the barrel. He put a hand back to his side after one step, but began to try and walk around him. From this vantage point, England could see where Hesse had struck America on the side of the head. “I should be with my soldiers.” he said, stopping near England since the older nation was half blocking the door.

“America.” England grabbed him by the arm, his hand reaching up to touch the younger’s temple. “Let me look.” he said firmly.

America jerked back and tripped over one of the crates near the door, barely catching himself before crashing to the floor. “Don’t touch me!” His eyes had changed, the defiance barely veiling something else. He was afraid, England could see it clearly.

England stepped back, hands up in the air. Now he was confused and he would never admit it, but a little hurt. “America you’re fine...I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Except that you already have.” England opened his mouth to reply but America started again. “I trusted you my entire life and you left me again and again. Then you used me as an excuse to fight with France. You put me right in the middle of that and acted like I should be grateful for the privilege of attending you. I had waited for you for fifty years and you could barely be bothered to make sure I was okay. You only had eyes for France and didn’t see me for a moment even though I was by your side! I would have stood by you and done whatever you asked, but you constantly sent me away. Then you decide that you don’t trust me or my people to decide things for ourselves and send a fucking army to tell me I’m wrong! What was this battle supposed to tell me England? That you love me?”

England found himself unable to make a noise. Of all things that he had been expecting, that certainly wasn’t it. Pressing his lips together he swallowed. “I don’t need a battle to-....I told you on a regular basis.” He shook his head. “Disciplining your child is love… every parent knows that.” he said quietly. 

America sank down onto the crate, pressing his bleeding lip into his already bloody jacket sleeve. He was silent for a minute, a brooding look passing over his face. “I am not a child. You are not my parent, and you made it clear a long time ago that I couldn’t call you brother.” America looked up at him from his seat, a tear sliding down his cheek. “And your memory is faulty England, because I have never once heard you say the words. When you disappeared and I didn’t see you for nearly a century France assured me you loved me and cared for me when he came to see Canada. It made me feel less alone. Here you are saying you love me like a child… You don’t get it, do you?” America’s tone incredulous and sarcastic by the end of his speech. England could tell there was more, but America’s mouth had started bleeding again and the young nation stopped speaking in order to staunch it.

England felt like he was swept up in some emotional hurricane just in this room. Knocking on the door he waited impatiently until a private opened the door. “Medical supplies now.” he barked. There was a hurried ‘Yes M’lord’ and the door was closed once more. England didn’t even bother turning to look at America, using the time to reorganize his emotions and tamp down the ones that he would have trouble controlling. When the door reopened he took the supplies with a noise of thanks. Turning he shrugged out of his coat and handed it to the man, motioning for the door to be closed. Shrugging off his crimson coat and unbuttoning his shirt sleeves, he rolled them up as he walked back to the colony. He took in the marks on the young man's waistcoat and the blood on his temple. Nothing serious. Head wounds bleed profusely, so he wasn’t too concerned.

America watched him, wary, but didn’t pull away when England pulled up a second crate and sat down in front of him. He was silent as England dabbed at the wound on the side of his head, wiping away the blood that had already stopped. He would have a bump there, but it would heal soon enough. It wasn’t until England was trying to stop America’s bleeding lip that he realized America was watching him intently.

England looked up and felt confusion swirl in his chest. It was then that he realized that he had been smiling the entire time. “I was just thinking.” England murmured, pressing the cloth to the boy's mouth. “About your head… it reminded me of a couple of summers ago. Canada came running into the house, all covered in snot and tears saying that you had fallen out of a tree. Trying to put a baby bird back in its nest.” He shook his head as he went to dampen the cloth. “I ran out after him and I thought my heart was going to stop. You were laying at the bottom of the tree with this fool grin on your face and your blond hair all covered in blood. I knew head wounds bled excessively but I still felt… I thought you had been severely hurt, all for a stupid bird. I didn’t let you leave my sight for days...terrified that you would get into more trouble… trying to be a hero...” He faltered and motioned for America to lift his shirt.

“That was more than a few summers ago…” America said. He hesitated with his coat, but then shrugged out of the blue uniform jacket, the white cuffs stained. His white waistcoat was covered in mud and it took him a moment fumbling with the silver buttons. The neckcloth came next. In just his shirtsleeves he stopped for a moment before pulling the loose garment over his head revealing a large bruise spreading across his ribs.

“Yes I guess so, time has tendency to blur together.” England exhaled roughly as the damage was revealed. Reaching out and prodding the tender skin his mouth thinned at the noise that came from the boy in front of him. Not even thinking about he made hushing noises at the teen when he flinched away from him. “I know it hurts. But I need to make sure none of your ribs are broken.” He touched the darkening skin, relieved when he realized it was also superficial. “Some of them are bruised but it seems like none are broken….I want to wrap you just in case.”

England glanced up and saw that America was a little flushed, he assumed it was from the pain. America lifted his arms when he asked and England wrapped the bandage around him, making sure the bandage would support any damage that had been done. Yes, he would be having some words with Hesse about this. “England… why are you doing this?” America asked to the top of England’s head as he reached around to do another turn of the bandage.

“Why wouldn’t I?” England questioned back as he finished, pinning the last wrap. Placing all of the unused supplies back into the bag that they had come in, he then pushed off the ground England dusted off his breeches. “You should be fine now. I'll make sure a meal is delivered to you, a blanket and such, and I'll be back to talk with you in the morning.” 

America stared at him, confusion clear on his face. “Why are you doing this?” he repeated.

Swallowing, England gave a smile and shook his head in the dim lighting he could barely make out the boy’s sky blue eyes. “You always ask so many questions, always have.” Leaning down he brushed the boy's hair back and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “I will see you later.” Grabbing the bag he pushed out the door, commanding the two privates stationed outside to follow him. He briefly touched the key in his pocket but left it there and simply let the door click shut. 

***

It was growing dark inside the room, the ambient light from outside fading as nightfall came on. America stood up, his body still aching, but slightly better for the doctoring. England had touched him with affection. He couldn’t believe it. He had to be playing a game with him. He pulled on his shirt and waistcoat, feeling exposed. England had been so close to him, and he said he was coming back. 

_Discipline is an act of love…_ America frowned at the memory. England still didn’t see him, just a little boy that he could pet and bring back into the fold. He had to get out of there. He stood on the inside of the door until he was certain he didn’t hear anyone moving nearby. Tentatively, he pushed it open and glanced through the crack.

No guards. He stepped out and was glad that his corner of the fort was in shadow with the setting sun. With his coat still on the crate he looked like any of the British soldiers that were resting after the long day in their waistcoats and shirtsleeves. The only problem would arise if they realized he was not someone they recognized. 

The fort had been shut down for the night, in case of counterattack. America knew he would not be able to go out any of the doors. There was only one option. 

He casually made his way up the steps to the fort’s earthen wall and climbed up towards a gaping hole in the wall. A cannon blast from the British artillery must have struck a cannon directly, causing the thing to explode and open up the space. No one was nearby and America could immediately see why. There were British soldiers outside the fort on this side, being encamped. America looked across the Hudson and saw that the American flag still flew above Fort Lee. If only he could get to it…

He swung one leg over the wall and then the other. He pushed off and fell the distance, stumbling at the bottom. 

“Halt!” 

He’d been seen! He ran toward the edge of the cliff, musket balls slamming into the ground and sending up puffs of dirt all around him. He didn’t even see the edge in the dark, but tumbled over it and into the cold water of the river. The fire stopped, they couldn’t see him in the darkness. He swam across the river and stood on the bank, the ache of his wounds back as the rush of the escape had worn off.

“I’m sorry, England. Things can’t be like they were before.” he whispered to the river. 

***

The fort was in a mild state of chaos that morning when England took his breakfast. He sat down across from Hesse, saying nothing to nation. There was nothing to be said. Briefly glancing at the other England took in the sight of an ugly black eye and a broken nose. 

The other glared at him, yet held his tongue before looking back at his own set of documents. England squashed down a smirk. He had told the nation that the colony as off limits, he hadn’t listened; hence repercussions. “You may enter Captain.” England sighed, lifting up his cup. In entered a middle aged man, looking nervous and uncertain about his current situation. “I take it you have something to report?”

“Yes, M’Lords,” he said nervously “It seems we have had a prisoner escape.”

“And…”

“It was the colony, M’Lord” he whispered.

“....Ah.” It was the only comment the island nation offered. He didn’t need to look at Hesse to know the nation was glaring at him in accusation. He could practically feel the other's burning gaze attempting to turn him to ash then and there. “Have you sent out scouts too look for the boy?”

“Yes M’Lord...the minute we realized that he was gone.”

“Well pull them back. He probably escaped in the night and it is a waste of manpower. He knows these lands far better than we do.” England ordered “Dismissed.”

He turned and looked at Hesse. The German shook his head. “I don’t think you understand you boy as well as you think you do. Haven’t you heard the stories of that Commander of his?”

“America has always been good at getting out of trouble.” he commented dryly, ignoring Hesse’s comment. The other stared murderously at him. “What can you do?” He glared at Hesse, daring him to say something, but the other nation merely shrugged and went back to his breakfast.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo! This chapter got long! Otakuashels and I had way to much fun writing the boys' first interaction since England has turned up from the war! If you enjoyed it please leave us a kudo or a comment and stay tuned for more to come!


	10. A New Year and a New Perspective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Losses are mounting for the Continental Army at the hands of the British. However, a bold and clever raid has America feeling more confident. England can't decide if he should be proud or furious.

_ December 26, 1776 _

_ Delaware River and Trenton, New Jersey _

America hated the cold. His bare fingers were numb as he methodically helped row. They were ordered to silence and the only sound was the soft swish of muffled oars dipping into the water as they rowed across the Delaware.

The silence made him think of far pleasanter Christmas holidays in the past. His mind flashed over many and each unsettled him more than the last. He was alone, or with Canada, or worse, with England in these memories. He couldn’t help but wonder if they were together, somewhere warm. He smiled at that, England was going to have one hell of a surprise come the dawn. Better yet, so was Hesse.

Glancing in the direction of the Commander in Chief he could see Washington in the prow of his boat. He was an inspiring figure, determined to keep America’s army together. America had been clinging to the little spark of independence, afraid that it would be snuffed out.

Hesse was confident America didn’t have the spirit to attack him. Too bad that he didn’t count on a spy in his midst. America and his men had been attacking British dispatch riders and pickets for days to gather as much information as they could. Tonight was the night.

“Victory or death.” America whispered under his breath, the words carried away in a fog. They were the keywords to the battle, it would end one way or another. The sky and its stars were obscured by the clouds dropping fat, white snowflakes on all of them. “Victory or death.” he repeated, teeth chattering.

They had landed and began to march in the dark of the night. The cold was bitter and America could feel the determination of the men who marched through the snow, some with nothing but rags on their feet. In some places, the snow was dyed red.

The sun rose slowly, turning the world briefly into a dazzling winter scene. It was not one to be admired for long as they came upon an outpost.

A Hessian came out the door of the little shop and America raised his musket to fire. His cold fingers caused him to miss.

“ _ See fiend!”  _ the man shouted. The enemy! More Hessian soldiers moved out and returned a volley. America could see understanding cross their lieutenant’s face, this was not a mere raid. Slowly, the Hessians began to retreat back to Trenton and their compatriots.

The plan was working! America’s heart soared. The American forces were keeping the Hessian Harrison in the city, not way to escape to the nearest British garrison at Princeton. For a brief moment, America looked down the road towards Princeton. Perhaps in just this moment England was rising, calling for tea, and having absolutely no idea that America was taking Trenton right from under his nose.

America turned back to Trenton. He could see Hesse in the distance. He was standing outside one of the houses, a mug of beer still in his hand. He dropped it onto the ground and picked up his musket, barking orders to the other men. America could hear Washington shouting over the noise, ordering the infantry towards the road to Princeton. If the Hessians couldn’t get word out there would be no lobster backs marching from their barracks.

A musket ball grazed America’s coat sleeve and it brought his attention back to the men immediately in front of him. A group of  _ Jägers  _ came out of one of the houses, the red collars of their coats reminiscent of blood. Before America even got his musket to his shoulder they were retreating from the American line.

With a ground shaking boom the cannons began to fire, balls and scatter shot tearing through the remaining Hessian positions. America could hear Hesse’s voice shouting at his men to get back into formation. They couldn’t. America was taking the ground and hope of victory was beginning to sing in his veins.

Time seemed to speed up and America could feel the battle infuse him. He had the advantage. Hesse was going to lose.

And he did. The surrender came not long after the American troops had gained all of the heavy gun positions. The Hessians had no choice but to give up.

America took a deep breath as he went into the town towards where they held the prisoners. He remembered the twinge of his bruised ribs after Fort Washington and the pain of escaping Fort Lee only a few days later. Anger boiled under his skin, not only due to the loss, but at England. He had dared to be kind and touched America with caring hands. In the days after the incident America wished that Hesse had just beaten him unconscious or that England would have picked up where Hesse had left off. It would have been so easy to have let England just hold him, to apologize. That was what England wanted to hear, and America was not sorry. Doing the right thing is never easy, and America knew going back to England wouldn’t be right for his people, and it wouldn’t be right for him. America was certain of that.

“Come to gloat, colony?” Hesse’s sarcastic tone drew America right out of his thoughts. “Going to avenge yourself upon me?” Hesse leaned back in his seated position. America took in his appearance. Hesse had taken a blow recently, a hit from another nation. England had struck Hesse? America frowned, yet another side of the Englishman he’d never seen.

“Is that what you would do?” America asked.

Hesse grimaced at him. “If I had come hunting you in winter quarters it would have been my pleasure to knock you senseless. You have no idea how soft he is on you, even now. Even after you slipped right out from under his nose. You should offer him everything you have before he changes his mind.”

“I’m not going to do any of that.”

“That’s funny. I can take it, kid. C’mon, let some of that rage out.”

“I’m not joking.” America said. Blue eyes met blue. America could tell Hesse didn’t believe him. “I don’t want to do what you would do. I am doing this because I am going to be different.”

“Your idealism makes me want to hit you even harder.”

“Maybe next time you’ll get to.”

Hesse shook his head. “No, I don’t know if I will. In the spring I have plans to return home. Don’t look so hopeful, my soldiers will remain. I just don’t want to look at your face any longer and England makes me sick. If only Hanover would get out of his bed...”

America stared at him. “What?” America choked out.

Hesse snorted in amusement. “Poor innocent little colony, you don’t know how the world works at all.”

“Don’t say anymore.”

“You are too obvious, America. I’m going to tell you something I’ve told my own little brother, guard your heart. It doesn’t do to pine after another nation, not unless you are planning on conquering them. A lovesick nation gets himself into trouble and, honestly, I don’t know if that bastard is capable of love.”

America looked down at the ground, the thought of England’s face when America had told him he’d never heard the word ‘love’ from his lips. England had been truly stunned. Canada had said something to him like that before.  _ It’s not our place to love them... _

“You don’t deny it. That’s brave.”

“You’re laughing at me.”

“No. It’s just pitiful.”

America’s mouth thinned, “You’ll be going with your men to Philadelphia, you can go home from there.” He turned on his heel and left. He walked into the house some of the soldiers were preparing for Washington and the other generals. He walked into the bedroom and slammed the door behind him. He sank to the floor, pulling his knees up to his chest.

For the first time in days his body began to thaw. “It is about more than that.” America said to his knees. They would all see. He would show them.

 

***

 

_ January 1, 1777 _

_ Princeton, New Jersey _

_ British Garrison _

England paced back and forth across the wooden floor. He could sense some of the younger officers’ eyes on him. Not all of them knew who he was but they knew he was important. He held a porcelain saucer in one hand and brought the team cup to his lips methodically in the other. America was a few miles away, less than a day’s march. By now his army was comfortably settled in Trenton, Hesse carted off with his captured men to Pennsylvania. England cursed the German nation. America had slipped through his fingers once again!

The tea had gone cold in the January air. The new year had brought with it little celebration. The only consolation was this would be the year he would end this mess.

“We waited to see if Washington’s army would disperse come the new year and he’s pulled some kind of trick with the illegal Congress to keep them. We should use our combined forces to attack them now and take back Trenton!” England paused in his pacing, turning to look at General James Grant. General Charles Cornwallis sat beside him, a bored expression on his face. The man was no doubt still irritated that his leave had been cancelled. He was supposed to be on a ship back home, instead, he had been ordered to join forces with Grant. 

“The Americans have been building earthworks along Assunpink Creek. They’ve left themselves open if we cross in certain areas.” piped up one of the junior officers.

“And what makes you think the Americans won’t just run when they realize their error?” Cornwallis asked.

“Do we have the numbers?” England interrupted. Both generals looked at him. Grant nodded.

“We shouldn’t hesitate, it just gives them more time to dig in.” Grant replied. England nodded at Grant’s words and resumed his pacing. The generals began to argue again. He turned his back on them and reached for the still warm tea pot, refilling his cup. He itched to climb on the back of his horse and ride down the road, demand that America speak to him. He knew that it would be better to show the boy instead, America learned better that way.

“We will march out tomorrow and engage them. Are you with us m’Lord?” 

England sat down the now lukewarm cup. He turned to the waiting eyes. “I am with you.”

 

***

 

_ January 2, 1777 _

_ Between Trenton and Princeton _

America leaned against the trunk of the tree, using it to steady his hands. He could hear them out there on the road, see the crimson coats in the distance. They were coming closer. They had been firing on them every time the British soldiers tried to get into battle lines. They just needed to slow them down until everything was in position.

He had been hurrying with the rest of the militia as they slowly retreated, firing on the British from positions in the forest, ravines, and even from the bend in the road. They kept coming, but America could tell they were unsettled. For just a moment he thought he’d seen England, but surely he was back in New York? During the last war England had always set up winter quarters with the rest of the high command, leaving the field men to fight until the realities of winter made it unwise, if not impossible, to carry on. His hands tightened on his rifle. Could he do it? Could he shoot him if it came to it?

America let that thought slide from his head as he heard the signal. The British were approaching the first bridge near the woods. The volley was deafening and he could only imagine what it looked like to those men who fell into the creek, torn from the shot that had pierced their flesh. He tried not to think about it too much as he fell into the rhythm of reloading and firing again. It became obvious that they couldn’t see them. The trees were so thick it was difficult to maneuver, all the more important to keep the British out in the open, not knowing how many men were in here. It wasn’t nearly as many as they thought after all.

The drums ordering formations made his heart pound. He knew them. He could see other men who had been in the British army recognizing the message as well. They were getting into the lines from where they would fire as one with a volley that, in theory, would bring the enemy to his knees.  _ Not me.  _ America thought. His ears were ringing from the gunfire and his senses grew numb to the noise from the British lines. Drums and flutes and shouted orders. He stayed quiet. Better to let them think there were hundreds, even thousands of his people in here. 

_ They’re stalling now.  _ America realized, the sound of rifle and musket fire continuing to blast in his ears. Men were standing there to draw their fire as orders were shifted further back in the lines.  _ Cannons.  _ He wasn’t the only one to realize it. One by one, men began falling back, following the other men to the next position. They were starting to advance. The first blast of the cannon ripped a tree in two, but no men for there was no one in that position. America began to move deeper into the woods, firing towards the red clad figures that had broached the forest now. They could look all they liked. They weren’t going to find anyone.

 

***

 

England’s patience was running thin, which had to be the understatement of the day. They might as well have been running in bloody fucking circles for the Queen’s sake! Grinding his teeth, England kept bitter words and shouts of anger deep within his chest. It wasn’t the soldiers’ fault that they were running around like children lost in the town square. His generals on the other hand, he could shout at them with great relish. How could they have underestimated the American position so incompetently? Worse yet, how were America’s generals continuously outmaneuvering his own?! He sighed, lowering his musket and running a hand through his untameable hair.  

Ignoring the confused looks from the soldiers around him, he opted for scanning the forest. America was somewhere out there, that he was certain of amidst the uncertainty of the day. Somewhere in that dark wood, the boy was there. Swallowing thickly, he opted for shaking out his hands rather than breaking rank and darting into the forest. One that would be foolish, since he would certainly get shot and secondly there was no certainty that he would be able to find America in such a landscape. For now, he would have to stay. The Americans couldn’t run forever. They would have to turn and face his men.

 

***

 

Looking at the sky, America guessed it was coming on dinner time, possibly four o’clock or so. They had retreated into a small ravine just outside of the wood. They needed to keep the British from overtaking them. Night was going to be his ally once again. They had been engaged for over an hour, where did all these men come from? America remembered those days so long ago when he had turned the new globe on its stand and England showed him where his home was. America could cover it with his hand when he was small. Were there really this many people?

“Jones, go back and tell Washington to prepare. We’re going to have to make a stand in Trenton and across the creek. We’re outnumbered here.” America nodded at the order and turned his back on the noise. Battle was so loud! He wondered if he would ever get used to it.

He wasn’t the only man beginning to go back. The British were breaking the lines and the firefight carried into the streets of Trenton. Musket balls stuck into the sides of houses and blasted through fence posts, but the town was empty of everyone but the soldiers. When he found himself on the other side of Assunpink Creek facing what was left of the British force he felt his heart leap into his throat. 

They were out of range at the moment, their red coats visible even in the coming dark. It wouldn’t be long until the cover of darkness was theirs and the plan could be initiated. He stood beside Washington who watched the whole scene calmly. America was almost afraid to speak to him, worried he would scare away the luck the man carried like a mantle. The luck that the men trusted him to have in situations like these. Washington reached over and squeezed America’s shoulder, the small, tight smile he offered to the men he was proud of on his lips. America gave him a nervous smile in return and took up a position.  _ Just keep them on that side of the water.  _ he repeated, over and over in his mind.

The first attempt to cross the bridge and the entire American line fired in one volley. Then a second line of red coats was met with cannon fire. The third attempt on the position was torn apart by scatter shot. It was nothing like what he’d seen at Bunker Hill, but again the number of dead and dying men on the field before him unsettled him. 

“Bridge is red as blood with their killed and wounded and red coats.” America couldn’t tell who said it, but the sentiment went through him. He was grateful when it was too dark to see anymore. If sending wave after wave of men was England’s resolve to defeat him, it was America’s resolve to stand against it.

 

***

 

“They are not going to be going anywhere, we can make another approach in the morning.” Grant said. “The men need rest in order to make a proper charge.”

“It might be in our best interest to attack them during the night. I don’t think we should wait.” Cornwallis argued.

“We have Washington cornered. We’ve retaken Trenton, he has nowhere to go.” A cannon boomed in the darkness. England could feel it rattle through the troops outside. He stood near the open flap of the tent. The momentum of the day had been lost, soldiers were feeling their weariness now. They would be asleep on their feet if left in the lines. He could see the campfires of the Continental Army and the clink of cooking pots on the other shore. America was over there somewhere, settling down himself.

He could see him in his mind’s eye, that serious expression still on his face that seemed fixed since the Seven Years’ War. How had he not foreseen this possibility then?  _ You never listened.  _ America’s accusation had ruffled him. In fact, America was the one not listening and look what it was leading to! Leaving the generals to argue over their next action he stepped outside, the ice in the winter air brushing its frozen fingers across his skin. He wanted nothing more than to march across that tributary and grab America right up from his cookfire. The words he had not said in that brief meeting simmered under the surface, threatening to boil up. He coughed, yanking his handkerchief from his pocket. It was red when he pulled it back, damnation. He balled the cloth into his coat pocket and marched off towards the infirmary.

There was always a cost to war and he would have to pay it along with his men.  _ You will stop this, America, I will make you understand your mistake. _

 

***

 

Dawn rose and England went with the exploratory column across the bridge. Each move was cautious, slow, hoping to sneak up on the unprepared Americans. Smoke rose along the shoreline, indicative of fires cooling in the early morning. No pop of a musket or boom of a cannon came as they got closer. England pushed his way through to the front to stand by a bewildered looking captain.

“Where the bloody hell are they?!” England demanded. The man turned to look at him wide-eyed. His expression matched England’s astonishment.Where there had once been thousands of troops and several cannons there was nothing but smoking fires and few worn out cooking pots. England stomped away down the beach before he took out his anger on the hapless soldier. He kicked a still smoldering log sending up a flurry of sparks into the remains of the American camp. Pain caught him in his stomach and he stumbled, falling to his knees in the sand.

“M’Lord are you all right?” someone asked. He waved off all attempts to help him to his feet. Someone was going to pay for this. He forced himself up through sheer force of will and propelled through the confused soldiers and field commanders back to where Grant and Cornwallis were plotting their military schemes.

“The entire American army has slipped through our fingers, gentlemen. Any idea where they have gone?” England ground out the words through gritted teeth. He wanted to strike the pompous bastards who had been arguing since this entire endeavor began.

“Excuse me, generals.” It was a young man’s voice.

“What?” England said, whirring on the ensign who paled considerably.

“There is a courier from Princeton. He states that the message is of utmost importance.” England resisted the urge to curse as Cornwallis waved the courier in. The rider was covered in dust as he presented a sealed envelope to the commanders. They tore through the red ribbon and read the words.

“For God’s sake what does it say?” England demanded.

Cornwallis cleared his throat and lifted his chin before answering. “The rebel army has captured Princeton.” England was snatching the paper out of the general’s hand before he could say another word. The Americans had taken the garrison in the night and it had been forced to surrender. At this very moment America was sitting somewhere in Princeton. He’d circled around and gotten right behind his lines! England caught himself on the table as a cough wracked his body with a convulsion. Stomach turning, England shoved his way out of the tent and into the camp. Gossip was already rampant amongst the men, many of whom were wondering how long they were expected to stay in the field this winter.

The January air bit at England’s cheeks as he started to walk. His feet chose the direction of the path. Pulling his magic about himself he became invisible, no one would be able to disturb him from his thoughts. His anger cooled the longer he walked. He should be proud, really. America had paid more attention to his lessons in military maneuvers more than England had ever thought. He was doing exactly what England had taught him to do, except for the part where he was fighting  _ him. _

His feet began to ache from his self-imposed march, but he couldn’t make himself stop. He didn’t realize how far he’d come until he almost walked right into a human. The soldier looked startled, but couldn’t see what had disturbed him so. He was wearing a brown coat, not one of England’s. England looked about him, he had walked all the way to back to Princeton.

He stepped carefully around the picket line and made his way into the town.

 

***

 

America didn’t know what compelled him to get out of his bed and go for a walk. It was just too quiet he considered, or too strange. Washington’s ploy had worked, they had Princeton and England’s generals were left looking like fools in the woods. He pulled his uniform back on and borrowed one of the officer’s cloaks as he stepped outside. The heavy fabric held the warmth of the house, but his feet soon felt cold. 

It was quiet, no later than three or so in the morning. Most of the soldiers had gone to sleep, only a few men still in the streets on guard duty. He nodded to them as he walked towards the outskirts of town, wanting a little bit of the quiet and openness. He loved towns and cities, but there were so many times when he felt he just needed to stare into the wilderness to get a sense of himself. 

He walked up to a split rail fence, leaning onto the top rail. The wood was rough hewn and it still smelled fresh, probably cut that fall. The winter night was nearly silent, only soft whispers of a breeze and the sleepy noises of an army at rest. He pulled the cloak tighter around himself and looked up into the starry night sky.

The sound of a boot in the snow drew his attention to the space around him, but he couldn’t see anyone. Another step and another. “Who’s there?” America said, reaching for the pistol he’d taken under the cloak. Another step and his fingers tightened. “Hello?”

No answer. He strained his ears, hoping to pick up something amiss, but nothing revealed itself. He shrugged and turned back to the night sky, probably just his imagination. In a whisper he began naming the constellations to himself. 

Cold fingers on his cheek made him jump. When he whirled around to see who it was there was no one there, but the night. A ghost? He stepped away quickly and hurried back into town, heart pounding. 

He didn’t stop until he was back in his bedroom, buried under the blankets wondering what sort of monster tried to get him in the night.

 

***

 

England tried to feel guilty about startling America so badly. He’d tried to have some fun with him on the past with ghost stories and surprises, but America never took it well. The boy was usually too grounded in reality and what he could see or thought he knew. At the same time, he wondered what had possessed him to touch him. Did he think America would have welcomed him in? Had a nice chat? Hardly. The boy probably would have shot him himself. 

That thought chilled England as he started on the long walk back to camp. When he arrived he was informed that General Howe had sent instructions to pull back the army closer to New York for winter quarters. This would not be settled before winter set in, and that thought froze England to the bone.

 

***

 

_ March 1777 _

_ New Jersey Frontier Country _

America wanted nothing more than for it to be spring. He was tired of skulking through the woods looking for any supplies the British may want. Ever since Washington had put out the order in January they had been claiming crops and livestock all across New Jersey. There was hardly anything left from the months of raiding from Morristown winter quarters. The upside was that England and his troops could gain nothing from the immediate area, but that also meant his people couldn’t either.

Everything felt hungry and cold. America had given up his shoes to another soldier and his coat had grown more and more threadbare. He told himself he didn’t mind, after all, he couldn’t die from something like this, but he hated it. At least if spring came the cold part would change, even though he had a feeling the hunger wouldn’t. England had supply ships and control of the ocean, America had none of that.

That was going to be a problem and he needed to find a way to change it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed leave a comment or a kudo! We're really excited for upcoming chapters because Canada will appear back on the scene! 
> 
> The First and Second Battle of Trenton (the second one also known as the Battle of Assunpink Creek) was a major morale builder for the American army. They had been suffering a string of defeats ever since the British invaded during the summer and many of the soldiers were ready to quit and give up on the cause for independence. Through force of personality and some wrangling of Congress to promise funds, George Washington was able to convince the soldiers to stay on until the end of the year. These winter successes drove the British out of New Jersey for the winter and revitalized the cause for the American people.
> 
> The beginning of 1777 saw the Continental Army raiding the countryside to keep supplies out of the hands of the British in New York. This caused quite a bit of strife between local Loyalists who were often seeing their farms and goods taken by the rebels.


	11. Allies and Proven Abilities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> America meets a particular French gentleman and then comes face to face with the nation himself. England is "celebrating" a victory.

_ June 1777 _

_ Philadelphia, Pennsylvania _

America liked him well enough, the Marquis de Lafayette. He was young, only nineteen, and was genial enough with everyone. He was clever. Best of all, he was willing to bring his own fortune to bear on the cause. Some of the other foreigners who had been knocking on Washington’s door offering battle expertise had been desirous of lofty ranks and big pensions, all things that America couldn’t give them. Surely, Gilbert du Motier had designs on being a general, but he seemed truly sincere in his passion for liberty.

If America was honest, it was France’s presence that he wasn’t so sure about. He had been avoiding him for days, not really sure what to say to him considering that his last words over twenty years ago hadn’t exactly been courteous. He hovered near the sitting room door, wanting to catch a glimpse of France, but not wanting to approach him. He turned, startled when he saw George Washington giving him a look. With a tilt of his head he commanded America to follow him and, sheepishly, America followed him into the empty dining room.

“America, you must make an effort. France can offer us the supplies we need to win this war.” Washington said as soon as the door was closed. “Do not make a fool of yourself.”

America knew Washington had his best interests at heart, but the order was difficult. America couldn’t help but feel that France was teasing him. He would send money and make overtures about how much he admired his ideals. So far, nothing had come of it except a few substandard weapons and pompous French noblemen wanting to play at war. “Washington... he and I were enemies the last time we saw each other.”

“And now we might be allies.”

“Fine. I’ll try to be nice.” replied America, frowning. He respected Washington, but he couldn’t figure out how the man always maintained his calm gentlemanly manner. He’d seen Washington lose his temper a few times, but it was more righteous anger than anything else. 

“Do more than try. We all may not like it, but France has an interest in us, in you.”

“Dr. Franklin said it was beneath my dignity to go about courting.”

“And yet he is in Paris this very moment finding munitions and supplies on your behalf. An actual treaty would do more for your cause. Do your utmost to get an alliance from him.” Washington opened the door and waited until America went through it. Sensing that he was being watched by the general he walked towards the sitting room. Pausing at the door, he took a deep breath. He straightened his jacket and stepped through the door.

“France, I’m sorry to keep you waiting, I have been engaged these last few days.” he said, trying to sound more grown up than he felt. France stood at the window, his back to the door. He seemed so much smaller now, than he’d been when they’d stood in England’s tent so many years ago. 

He turned at America’s voice, face twitching for a moment in surprise before turning into a friendly smile. “ _ Amerique,  _ you have grown.”

“I must have since you seem much smaller.” For a moment America feared he had said the wrong thing, but France laughed. He stepped closer and America offered a hand to shake. France took it, but pulled him close into an embrace.

“Independence has taken to you.” France said, close to America’s ear. The younger nation didn’t want to pull away in rudeness, but the embrace was too familiar. From France it just seemed wrong. He held as still as possible, France brushing past him towards the center of the room.

“Thank you.” America said once he’d been released. He drew himself up tall and cleared his throat. “Speaking of independence I am obliged to ask--” France held up a hand, cutting him off. 

“I am simply here to deliver that dear, headstrong boy who you’ve so greatly inspired. I have been personally threatened by England should I make any promises of support.”

America looked down at his shoes, the annoyance floating to the surface. “Why can’t you just say what you mean? Are you going to help me or not?”

France patted America on the shoulder. “Do not look so disheartened, America, your former big brother does not frighten me. Come, let us drink and catch up.” He started to steer America towards the sitting couch and chairs arranged near the fire. 

“France, I really don’t have time to... er... well, I am in a war if you haven’t noticed. I can’t spend all my time--”

“You have a lot to learn. Sit down with me, America.” France dropped down into one of the chairs, crossing one leg elegantly over the other. America sat down opposite from him, perched on the edge of his seat. France tilted his head, examining him. “It’s a shame you’ve only ever had England as an example.”

“He only did what he thought was right.” America said, not sure where the need to defend England came from. 

“Is that what he is doing right now? What he has been doing over the last twenty years?” Heat flared across America’s face. 

“He’s wrong about this, about me.”

“Believe me, America, I understand. You’ve been taught our histories, you know how many times he and I have been at war. We’ve each gotten in good strikes.” France turned away and looked towards the wall, his eyes focused on nothing in particular. Whatever memory had struck France caused his proud and confident mask to slip. He looked ancient and sad. Uncomfortable, America shifted in his seat, pulling his knees up to his chest.

“Is that why you’re here? To get another chance to strike him?”

France pinned him with his gaze. “If that were the case, would it bother you?”

America thought about this for a moment. Would he mind? Was that how things worked? It didn’t really seem right, to let France join him just because he wanted to hurt England. However, at the same time, he was going to run out of military supplies if England maintained control over the ocean. He had a few ships, but it was hardly a navy. “I don’t know.” he said, deciding the honest answer was probably best.

“You are so direct, America, but I must admit I admire it about you. You could do with a few lessons in diplomacy, however. I must say, though, your man Benjamin Franklin is quite enjoyable at Versailles. My people are quite taken with him.”

“He’s accomplished.”

“Yes, discovering a way to tame electricity, quite fascinating. Some of your other envoys though, dreadful personalities.”

“They aren’t technically envoys.”

“America, you and I both know why they are there.”

“England knows too doesn’t he?”

“Of course, he does.” France stood up. “Anyhow, I am off to New Orleans.”

America stood up as well. “You came all the way here just to tell me I need to work on my diplomacy?”

“And to get a good look at what you’ve become.” The way France looked him up and down made America shift on his feet and cross his arms across his chest. What was he looking for?

“Why?”

Walking past him, France paused near the door, turning back. He was close and America realized he was just a hair taller and France had to look up to meet his eye. “I’ll let you in on something America, we may exist on our own, but until we are recognized we have limited influence and power. Do you intend to be a great nation?”

This answer was easy. “Yes.”

“Then when the time comes I will be among the first to recognize you. However, you have to prove yourself first.”

“Prove myself how? I’ve won several battles and drove England back into New York.”

“I’m not talking about battles.  _ Adieu, Amerique. _ ” France stepped forward and kissed him on the forehead. He’d done that before when America had been very small, but it felt strange now, too personal. America couldn’t even think of anything to say as France stepped into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind him. For several minutes he stared at the oak door, contemplating going after him.

_ Prove yourself. _

What else had he been trying to do but prove himself? He sat back down on the sofa and wondered about what else he could try and do. 

He sat next to Washington at dinner and told him, “He wants something more, I think, before he’ll recognize me. He didn’t tell me what he was waiting for though.”

“Then, we will have to find the thing that will inspire him to commit.” 

America nodded. “I will do my best, General Washington.”

He passed the dinner trying to think of a way to get France on his side. England had never taught him how to get allies and America had never thought to ask since he’d thought he would always have England. That was England’s job, to find allies.  _ I should have asked,  _ he thought. 

It was after dinner that he was jolted out of his thoughts. “We have something for you.” said Mrs. Betsy Ross, a woman from the community. She pointed to a box on the sideboard. “There was a great deal of discussion about it, but we think you will like it.” America looked curiously around at the faces of the officers and some of the high ranking members of Philadelphia who milled about in conversation. Several of the women smiled at him.

“Congress has approved it.” said one of the women, smiling. “It may not be your birthday until next month, but you can open it if you would like.”

Everyone watched him as he stood up and went over to the box. It was simple enough, and didn’t seem to be too extravagant. Lifting the lid up and pulling aside the white linen that was wrapped around the item he first saw the blue square of fabric, stitched with thirteen stars in a circle. They were different than some of the drawings he’d seen of George Washington’s suggesting what his flag should look like. Slowly, he picked it up, unfurling the flag between his hands the thirteen stripes in red and white spread out. 

“It’s beautiful, Mrs. Ross.” he said to the woman, nodding to all of the ladies. 

“It’s the Stars and Stripes and it is now the official flag of the United States of America.” said Washington, “We thought it would be a fitting change to the old one.” 

_ No more Union Jack,  _ America thought,  _ No trace of England left, except the colors themselves.  _ He gathered the cloth close to his chest, holding it to him. It was a special thing to have a flag and he was proud to have something to hold above his armies as they faced England and told him they were something different. Turning to the crowd of people waiting on his reaction he smiled.

“Thank you.”

***

_ July 7th, 1777 _

_ Near Fort Ticonderoga, British America _

Sucking on his teeth, Arthur did not even bother with the meal that was presented to him that evening.  As of late everything tasted of ashes, the only reason he took drink was the heady feeling it presented him in lieu of it all. Digging his heel into the grass beneath his temporary desk he heaved a sigh as he flicked over documents. Spies had been sent forward the previous evening and had returned with little to no information to his annoyance. He had originally planned to set up atop of Sugar Loaf height, it conveniently looked over Ticonderoga and Independence but the blasted rebels had been in the way at first. Tapping his quill against the corner of the current dispatch he heaved another sigh. Fingers rubbing at his eyes was a futile attempt to rid them of tiredness. Reading by oil lamp often gave him an arduous headache, though he was certain the events of the previous day's contributed. The second of July had begun in a wash of embarrassment. 

The American forces led by a man named Arthur St. Clair had come face to face with his own troops who were led by General John Burgoyne who had set forth with his advance guard. According to the report it seemed that at first there were to be no shots exchanged. But of course the American soldiers, if one could call that rag tag group of farmers soldiers, had fired a shot dropping one of his British Regulars to the ground. Burgoyne's troops had fled and when they returned they found the fallen soldier with a captured loyalist. Though the fallen soldier was not fallen in the sense of injury, the damn fool reeked of heavy spirits! He had been drunk! The next day they had taken Sugar Loaf over with no resistance as the rebel forces had left the area. Things had been looking up. 

Rubbing at his sore neck Arthur mulled over the fourth. The blasted bloody fourth. He had woken that morning ill to the stomach and hot with sweats. For the life of him he could not figure out the sudden onslaught of his affliction.

Temporarily the English nation's thoughts were developed by an exchange of French just outside of his tent. Reaching for his knife he tensed instinctively. England only released the carved hilt when the logical side of his mind pointed out the accent. That wasn’t French, that was the peculiar version that Canada spoke. His logic was confirmed when Matthew, decked in military garb, entered the tent with two plates in hand. For a brief moment, Arthur caught the face of the private stationed outside. It was the one that he had screamed at just last night. Briefly Arthur allowed himself to revisit two days ago

***

_ Three days earlier... July 4, 1777 _

“And then I want to completely cover the north slope and send in the second party here.”  England slid his finger along the map, running the battle plans in his mind. He much preferred doing this out on the open seas to fighting overland. 

“But M’Lord what if they send up a group along the south side of the height?” John Burgoyne pointed out. 

“Good point Generals….Send a small group there, one of them specifically being a runner. The rebels will be expecting us to come from the south but it is good not to leave anything unattended,” he nodded, “we shall station a standing group just in case of such an event.”

Touching his stomach, England breathed through his nose. He had been nauseous since yesterday morning, and a spy had revealed to him why. July fourth was a disgusting day and even in the midst of a bloody war, America and his traitorous colonists seemed hell bent on rubbing it in his face. Apparently, while his troops sat atop of Sugarloaf, the traitorous rebels had been holding their own sort of little celebration.

They were celebrating the fourth and their success in rebelling against their mother country. England felt a brief surge of guilt. The poor runner that had delivered such news to him had received quite an unwelcome response. He lost it and started screaming at the poor lad. And when he had questioned the man if anyone to by America's description had been seen amongst the drinking and the celebration the man had looked as if he was about to pee himself. Looking back, England was glad that Canada had arrived when he did. Everyone had gotten out of the range of his rage and the only thing that suffered any damage had been the briefing table. Which was currently making for a good pile of kindling for the fires around camp.

“M’Lord are you alright?” The question brought England out of his unpleasant memories. The men around the table were all looking at him. Some with concern and others with uneasy expressions, as if they were worried he was going to fly off the handle once more.

“Yes, I’m fine” waving a dismissive hand his discounted their concerns “I have just been feeling a tad under the weather you know. The cold and all.” 

***

_ July 7, 1777 _

The cold and all. That's what he had been blaming his sour attitude on since the fourth. That had been three days ago. It was now the evening of the seventh and he had yet been able to shake the dour mood that he had been in. 

“Thank you, Matthew.” He thanked the younger country who handed him a plate and sat across from him at his small writing desk. Gathering up missives and other such papers England tucked them away for safety. Glancing once more towards the tent flap he made a mental note to track down that soldier and make a formal apology to the man. He really hadn’t deserved such anger.

“You know I was expecting you to be in much higher moods due to the fact that we won that little battle. I mean your troops did hold the fort without having to take a single shot.” Canada added on, peering with some concern at the food that was supposed to be stew in his bowl. “I mean God certainly had us in his favor in regards to those rebels leaving the cannons on Hubbardton road...I mean really...drunk at that time in the morning. All in our favor, I guess, eh?” The blond nation shrugged. 

“Yes, all in our favour.” England rolled the drink around in his mug. “However, I just cannot seem to shake the feeling that something is off. That I am missing something. I mean half this blasted rebellion has been that way. They technically are still my colonists, so not only am I so busy taking care of the Loyalists from America's damn traitors, but now I’ve got Hessians in my troops. Then, on top of everything else, these savages are in my troops technically all belonging to me.” He swallowed thickly before continuing, “It’s a lot to process all at once. Civil wars never do sit well with a nation's stomach.” He grinned weakly. “Never have one Matthew. They are absolute rubbish and neither women nor drink can take the taste from your mouth completely.” he sighed before adding on, “Especially not women. Not good. Understood.”  He raised a finger in admonishment.

“Of course, Mr. England.” Matthew said softly. England could see it in Canada’s face, he wasn’t quite taking him seriously.  _ Heavens,  _ England thought,  _ What could he have been up to over here by himself with France’s influence so young? I suppose he was populated by whores at first...  _ Canada was staring at him, so he broke off the train of thought and tried to turn back to the matter at hand. Stirring the stew half heartedly he lifted a scoop to his mouth to please Canada who was watching him. Something felt off, something was not going well. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed, please leave us a comment or a kudos! Coming soon is a certain General Benedict Arnold and some battles that make the French stand up and take notice of a fledgling rebel nation.


	12. Headaches and Homecomings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> England bonds with his generals as they hand America a devastating blow and march into the capitol city of Philadelphia. Meanwhile, America humiliates a British general at Saratoga and reunites with Canada.

_September 11, 1777_

_Outside Philadelphia, Pennsylvania Colony_

_Battle of the Brandywine_

The fog was so thick a man could barely see the hand in front of his face. _A double edged sword_ , England thought. On the one hand, the fog gave sufficient cover to the brightly clad troops; the rebels wouldn’t see them coming. However, if the rebels were coming, they would have the advantage of surprise. It was like having cotton stuffed into his ears, the sound of hooves, boots and wagon wheels against the road, muffled. Coughs were smothered not only by hands but by the air itself. Even conversation became questionable. Rising to his toes, England glanced around, eyes narrowing as he tried to see through the fog. For now, it seemed that everything was okay, but as any seasoned soldier knew, that could change in the blink of an eye.  

They had left that morning from Kennett Square, the sunrise on their coattails. The original plan, if their information were correct, was that his group would run into some of America’s rebels at Chadds Ford. _However, with this fog, we may have to change things._  

Forcing his shoulders to relax he turned to look at General Cornwallis. The man was leaning over the neck of his horse, tension hunching his shoulders. Cornwallis along with General Howe were leading a British Vanguard this morning, a significant portion being the Queen's Rangers, a group of loyalists. “General?” England prompted the man quietly, hand resting on the dagger at his hip. He didn’t like the look in the man’s eye. 

“My Lord, if I asked you and General Howe to stay behind a bit as the rest of us were to draw ahead would you take my request?” said Cornwallis. Eyes swiveled towards the nation.

“If you find it indeed necessary.” England frowned. “Though I do question why.”

“I’ll let you know. Follow in about fifteen minutes.” The middle-aged man grinned. The expression of familiarity disappeared as quickly as it came. With a signal above his head, the troops continued to move forward, only breaking rank as they were now forced to walk around England’s and Howe’s stopped horses.

“Charles?” England frowned as the man gave no answer. He had known the middle-aged man most of the human’s life.  He had been at his titling as Viscount Brome and then when he became the Earl of Cornwallis in 1753. The man was one of his colonial administrators, and England had plans to make him a civil and military governor of Ireland and India. The man was just that good. England had seen promise in the younger Charles when he had spent time at Eton and Cambridge. He was bright, quick to solve a problem and was an experienced veteran after his time in the Seven Years War. In a war camp and at the local tavern they had shared more than a pint or two. He had gone from a boy studying at school to being the Colonel of the 33rd Regiment of Foot at England's prodding when the rebellion became a real problem. He knew his stuff that England was not worried. “Whatever is this all about?” He turned to look at the other General.

“I am not sure, my Lord. Maybe he want’s to give some prep talk to the soldiers.”

“And I had to be gone for him to do it?” That stung a little.

“Well, you are a little intimidating, sir” Howe shrugged, wrapping his loose reins about his fist. At England's glare, he continued. “Well, you are one of the highest ranking members of the court and the top adviser to His Majesty George III. You hold an immense amount of power and if one were to mess up for speak out of line, something that you find disagreeable that could be it for them.” The man shifted back in his saddle at a more comfortable position. For him, certainly not for the horse.

“Well, at least they know who to respect.” England sighed. “But I did not think that I was that intimidating. Or that demanding.” 

Pursing his lips, he stared ahead of them as far as he could. The fog was slowly starting to burn off, but it would be mid-morning before that happened. Howe’s silence at his question tugged at his attention.

“I am not that demanding, am I?” Briefly, his mind flitted back to America and the younger nation’s accusations.

“Demanding. Yes, you most certainly are.” Howe said flatly before his tone changed. “But not needlessly. There are certain reasons behind every request you make. Reasons that came from long years of experience as a parent or leader. Your reasonings are solid, and although many times being demanding can be seen as a horrible thing, that is not always the case. It’s like a mother. Despite how much I hated my mom demands, for telling me to do things and demanding them to be done and to complete it in a certain way, they were in my best interest. Sometimes, she may have gotten it wrong, and yes they were often made for reasons I did not fully comprehend, yet, they were from her experiences. As long as one does not go too overboard, then there is no reason for demanding to be a problem.” Punctuating his sentence with a yawn Howe fell silent. For a moment England stared at the man. He had not been expecting that at all.  Blinking as if to remove the shock that silenced his voice England nodded.

“Well...that's good to know.” he said slowly, and Howe laughed.

“My wife is a very brilliant woman. I have learned some things from her.” He chuckled again. “Now, let's start heading over after Cornwallis, my Lord.” He smiled and turned around.

“Yes.” England nodded, his thoughts taking on the status of a biography. Like Cornwallis, he had met William Howe when he was younger. The man was passionate, to say the least.  Howe had experienced many years of services inside the War of Austrian Succession and the Seven Years War. That was where they had met, at the successful Siege of Louisbourg in 1758. The man had many qualities that his older brother George had. It was that same year that George had died at the siege of Fort Ticonderoga. The younger man's ability to play the brilliant war hero during the day and leave his mourning for the night was something that showed great promise.  Although, England briefly found himself doubting his decision later on when the Intolerable Acts passed against the rebels. Howe had spoken openly against them, arguing unnecessary tensions against the colonies. He had always been sympathetic towards the thirteen colonies in parliament and 1774 publicly announced that he would take no additional actions against the settlements and would even work underneath Thomas Gage! England had been about to start an all-out brawl with the man in the midst of parliament for such statements.  However, in 1775 when King George called him to battle Howe had gone willing, stating that turning down such a proposition, to not serve his country when it was under such stresses was suicide.

 

England had to admit, for a year or so after he had many Generals and soldiers alike spy on the young General for him. To report back any sliver of evidence that the man was going traitor, he would have him hang the moment he found any proof. Nothing cropped up. Begrudgingly, he had been forced to deal with the fact that while Howe may disagree with practically everything in regards to America, the man's devotion to his country was unshakeable.

“My Lord!”

“Yes?” England looked up to find Howe staring at him with irritation on his features. Apparently, the man had been calling after him more than once. It was then that England heard the unmistakable sound of a gunshot, multiple ones. Without a second to spare, heels digging into the bellies of their horses the two took off.  The natural flex of the horse beneath him mixed with the cocktail of adrenaline and fear to rush through his veins England became grounded in a way that only a soldier would be able to recognize.

“Well...fuck. We missed all the action.” Howe pulled up his horse short.

“So you wanted all the glory for yourself, Charles!” England shouted as he nudged his horse past Howe’s. Scanning around he looked at what appeared to be the remains of a small skirmish between traitors and his countrymen.

“Nah, I just figured that we shouldn’t wait for you.” Cornwallis laughed pulling up beside him.

“I am certain that was the case.” England rolled his eyes as the man laughed again, clapping him on the back. Looking over his shoulder, he tried to measure the distance that the troops had come since their last checkpoint. It seems that they had passed Chadds Ford, at Welch's Tavern. None of their informants had told them that they were going to meet any of the rebels this far from the point. But that was war; nothing worked out perfectly. 

He watched, silently, as men moved bodies and the soldiers talked amongst themselves. Rubbing just behind his ear he heaved a sigh of resignation as the tell-tale pain began once again. His head was throbbing again. Not that it was a new occurrence. More often than not England found himself a victim of headaches as of late. Although, the same things had happened to him during the Bishop Wars, his Civil War, economic struggles you name it. And the larger the British Empire became, the more frequent the headaches. It was no surprise. Pinching the bridge of his nose England sighed, “Well, let's keep going shall we?”

“Those bloody bastards got what was coming to them!” A soldier's name who he did not remember shouted from atop the tree stump he had been sitting on, cheeks flushed with either adrenaline or whiskey. Not that the difference mattered, they were practically the same thing to a man who had spent the day staring at the musket barrel and bayonet all day. That had won another battle, that was something to celebrate. They had suffered heavy losses in the fight, but they had prevailed. The battlefield had been massive in size, starting at the Old Kennett Meetinghouse grounds and expanding three miles the Brandywine Creek, at the area marker for Chadds Ford. Even sitting here, with whiskey warming his belly and fingertips tingling he could taste the adrenaline as if it was just fading from his veins. 

The exchange of bullets had just begun, the time mid-morning. Horse whinnying beneath him as bullets rang out on both sides. Men are shouting, bodies crashing amongst each other in a fervid frenzy. England couldn't stay sitting in his saddle any longer. Throwing his reins at the soldier assigned to his steed, he leaped off the beast's back and grabbed his gun. That gun. That was something that England did not care or in regards to modern warfare. It was impersonal. It did not make a man see what he was doing. You did not even have to be within arm's length of a man to pierce his body.  He missed that about the sword. The weight of a steel sword, crafted in the fire and sweat of a blacksmith's tool, beneath the pounding of his hammer within the bosom of a forge.  The physical endurance a warrior would have to work for, the burn of his shoulders and arms. The tension in his legs as he pushed forward, body and steel in a run through an opponent. The final blow that would force him to look into his opponent's eyes, to watch their adrenaline mix fear and finality as they succumbed to their inevitable fate. That was a battle, that was war. This, this was a slaughterhouse with no honor, no heart.

Going through the motions, he loaded and primed his gun, before lifting the weapon and pulling the trigger.  The bruise on his shoulder that would appear later in the evening was going to be pathetic in comparison to the cut of a finely crafted blade. But nevertheless, the little brat had started it. It was his fault. He should have challenged him to a duel, not this disaster.  

Priming his gun again England couldn’t believe his luck when a familiar face crossed his path. It seemed that he was not the only officer that had decided to get off of his horse.  There, a mere few feet away from his was the Marquis de Lafayette. He nearly snorted in disbelief. It seemed as if God was indeed smiling on the English today.  He had heard the little brat was working with America, but from what Canada had told him the lad had not been given any troops. He didn’t know why any of France’s damn military twats were involved in his argument with America and it still irked him to no end.

Lifting his gun, his scowl deepened as the boy turned and saw him, eyes connecting over the writhing mass of bodies between them. England barely registered himself pulling the trigger. But he knew he was a damn good shot, he didn’t want to kill the lad, but a shot to the leg would send the message. And the widening of the boy's eyes solidified the rumors Canada had told him. America and Lafayette frequently talked. The young Frenchman had recognized him. 

Lowering his gun, England watched as the kid dropped his weapon, clutching at his leg. He watched as one of the rebels grabbed him beneath his arms and began to pull him away, mouth open wide which meant he was shouting something. Watching the man being dragged away England felt the adrenaline drain out of him. Looking around, centuries of battle made it blatant that a retreat was about to occur. The rebel line was drawing further back while his own advanced. There were many bodies on the ground. He heaved a sigh, they may win, but it was not going to be without casualty.

And he had been right about that. Later that day, England stared at the report in his hands, only able to read portions of it with the light from the flickering fires. They had many casualties. If the report was correct, then they had suffered more casualties than the rebels had. That was an irritation, to begin with. He continued through the story, twirling the whiskey slowly. Ah, there it was. The report that the Marquis was injured. Shot in the leg. Perfect. That would make a statement.  Folding the missive, he leaned back further in his chair and handed the report back to  Charles.

“Look at this” Charles frowned and handed him a different report. Looking it over England frowned. This report differed. It said that Washington's men had suffered more casualties than they had.

“What is this?”

“This is the fourth report that I have received this evening that had differing numbers of casualties, and it changes which side had more.”

“And I have three more here” Howe came up with the pair, holding up three sheets of parchment with a sigh. It seems neither our side or theirs can decide on the actual outcome of the battle except the fact that we won.”

“So we have no official report on the number of men that died or were wounded to send back His Majesty and parliament.”

“No, we do not.” Howe sighed, settling down next to them. We can send back an average, and that is all.”

“For now that's what we shall do. We will attempt to gather specifics at a later date.” England sighed. It wasn’t perfect. But it was something.  It was a blow, some men that were injured, but they had won the battle. That was the important part.  Crossing his ankles, England eyed his drink before lifting it up one more. He would sleep well tonight, whether it be due to his victory or a belly full of spirits it didn't matter.

***

_September 26, 1777_

_Philadelphia, Pennsylvania_

_British Capture_

“And of course they ran!” England scowled throwing his hat down upon the table. Howe had officially outmaneuvered Washington that day. The rebels had barely fought back. They could have just handed them the key to city hall, it had that easy to take the city. Stopping, England looked around at the corridor where he was standing. There were many tables; he was sure there were thirteen if he bothered to count. He peered up over the desk at the front of the room. There were little plaques with the acronyms of the states all pushed to one side. He didn’t need to mull over why they were all in a line on the one hand. The Continental Congress had met in this room to decide on their Declaration of Independence. 

It was in this place where his colony had decided that they no longer wanted to be a part of his empire. Where America and his people had decided they didn’t want him anymore, that they would stubbornly stand on their own. America had done this despite the fact he did not have the money nor an understanding of the world. It never crossed him mind that England was doing his best to protect him. He wasn’t perfect, but America had decided that meant he was no longer worth his fealty or love. 

His long sigh echoed throughout the empty building as he sat on the corner of a random desk.  Kicking his leg absentmindedly he became well aware of the weight in his pocket. A tiny thing really, tiny in comparison to the weapons that he had carried over the last couple of months. Not really a weapon, though one might argue it could be one, depending on how one looked at it. He was confident that William Shakespeare could have offered him a cup of metaphors and a bucket's worth of symbolism. That man was a genius when it came to putting pen to paper. However, he could be rather long winded, especially when they had been in the tavern. 

Scooting off the table, England headed for the door. The atmosphere of the hall made him hot around the collar. He pulled his hat back on as he exited, nodding in acknowledgment at the men snapping to attention and saluting, halting in their march down the street. 

Muscle memory carried him down familiar streets. Some of the houses hadn’t changed since the last time he had been here. The house he sought was a mere mile from the hall of the rebel Congress. England was not sure if he was just walking slow, or deliberately avoiding entering a building empty of everything but memories. No sooner had the thought crossed his mind when the house appeared in his sight. House was a fitting word for it, once he would have called it a home, but no more. 

It was another structure that hadn’t changed. At least on the outside. The same three steps lead up to the same heavy brown door. Had his knees been that sore when he had woken that morning? Or had the steps up to the house gotten taller? Was the key always that heavy in his hand, and did it always protest so when trying to put it in the lock. And when was the last time the hinges were oiled? He was certain they hadn’t made so much noise the last time he had been here, and the floor, it was so dusty, and when was the last time someone pulled back the curtains?

Even among the cobwebs and dirt, the house was filled with America.

***

_October 7, 1777_

_Upstate New York_

_Second Battle of Saratoga_

America had a headache. The pain sat right behind his eyes and made his vision blurry. He couldn't’ be quite sure of it’s ultimate cause, but he had a feeling it was England. It had become apparent to America that England was trying to cut him in half, to separate New England from the rest of him. If the middle and southern colonies were conquered, what would happen to him? Would he die? Would another nation appear? He didn’t know and really didn’t want to find out. Washington had sent him north with General Gates and America still didn’t understand why. All Gates seemed to want to do was retreat. It certainly wasn’t helping his headache. 

The shouting a few weeks ago when General Arnold had been relieved of his field command had been a scene America was not going to forget any time soon. Arnold had turned the British away and stopped their advance. However, he’d defied his orders and Gates wasn’t forgetting it. _Probably because it was the first success we’d had in awhile._ America had thought. Gates wanted the credit. Soon, the battles would slow, campaign season coming to an end for winter.

He’d survived another year. He held to that knowledge when things looked bleak. A summer of England trying to crush him personally, and he was still here. America rubbed at his face, wishing the pain away. England... he was probably going through the house they’d once shared in Philadelphia, sitting in the chair he always had by the fire...

“Jones!” America opened his eyes, the recollection disappearing from his mind at the sight of General Gates standing over him. America didn’t move immediately from his camp chair, waiting for the man to speak. Gates crossed his arms. “Are you unwell?”

“A headache, sir, I think it’s General Howe.” America said. Gates didn’t make any overture to that. He was having his own headaches America was sure, but it was in the form of his own countrymen. With the militias swelling their ranks they had nearly 12,000 men in the field.

“The British are on the move. I’d like you to join us in planning the order of battle.”

America nodded. “Of course.” he said, pushing himself up and wincing at the sharp pain that jolted through his skull. He saw Gates’s expression, but the man didn’t comment. Je just started back towards the gathering of commanders. America glanced at the sky. It was probably nearing 11:00 a.m. Musket fire sounded from the west, becoming more constant and steady. From their position he could see the British turning away from the sharpshooters that were in the wood. Perhaps the British would give up their advance like they had back in September. General Burgoyne was being stubborn. He had two choices before winter set in, push forward or go all the way back to Fort Ticonderoga that had been captured back in July.

America rubbed at his forehead. General Clinton was obviously not coming up after his capture of Philadelphia, everyone knew it from the intercepted dispatches. He moved towards the tent with the field commanders, maybe the norther problem being dealt with would ease the pain in his head.

***

News came by 2:30 in the afternoon that a bayonet charge had been successfully routed and the remaining grenadiers captured. Some valuable British field artillery had been captured as well. America frowned when Gates only accepted this news and went back to planning an open engagement somewhere in a field. The headache spiked again and looking at the map became too much. America excused himself and went outside. Nothing was going to be happening fast here.

As America strolled into camp he walked directly into someone. General Arnold looked him up and down. “Ah, America. Is Gates being too cautious again? Growing tired of the fool?”

America looked down at his boots. “I’m just... I just needed some air General Arnold. I’ve had a pain in my head.”

“I’m surprised Gates hasn’t been a pain in other places.” Arnold wrapped an arm around America’s shoulders. “Come with me, I’ll help you with that headache of yours.”

“Where are we going?” America asked as he was offered a horse.

“To the battle, where else?” Before America could say anything, Arnold was on his horse and riding out from the camp towards the lines. He was headed toward the British position on the right. They had built redoubts and the Continental position was faltering. America spurred his horse to catch up.

***

America’s ears were ringing by the time he realized they had won the ground. He could barely connect one action with another in the chaos of the attack. Surveying, he could see them carrying General Arnold off the field. He had a horrible wound in his leg. America had started towards him when he caught a glimpse of familiar yellow hair amongst the captured British wounded. He walked towards him, drawn like a target, trying not to get in the way of the field doctors. Canada was clutching a bloody handkerchief around his thigh, a pained expression on his face.

Stopping in front of him, America waited for him to look up. He didn’t until America crouched down to be eye level with him. At first, Canada only glanced at him, dismissive then with recognition. “Alfred.” he said in acknowledgement, using his human name.

“Matthew.” America replied. “How bad is your wound?”

“It’ll mend.” Canada said, eyes falling from America’s face. America reached forward and took hold of the blood-soaked cloth. A ball had gone straight through Canada’s thigh, but the blood was already slowing. It hadn’t hit anything vital. However, it had to hurt more than Canada was letting on.

“So England did leave you at Fort Ticonderoga with Gentleman Johnny. I was wondering.”

“England was under the impression you would be with Washington.”

“I was, but now I’m here. I should get someone to take care of you.” America began looking around, but most were busy with other wounded men. The losses for the British had been heavy. “You’re going to be transported to the camp. I’ll come see you.”

Canada’s expression was sharp. “What makes you think I’ll wait there for you?”

America frowned. “Because we’re brothers? For God’s sake, what do you want me to do find some shackles for you? I will if that’s what it takes.” Canada stared at him, brow furrowed and mouth set. Annoyed, America walked away. It was coming on dark. The British camp may be exposed, but there was only so much to do in the cold dark night.

***

It was ten days later when America pulled Canada out of the captured ranks. They were awaiting the terms of the surrender. Burgoyne’s army wasn’t going anywhere surrounded on all sides by America’s. He wanted to talk to his brother away from the humans where they could speak freely. He had questions and Canada was going to sit with him until he answered. America gripped his arm, noticing that Canada must be mostly healed by now although he still limped. When they arrived at America’s tent, Canada took his seat in the camp chair legs stretched out in front of him. He’d not said one word since America had collected him.

America sat down on the edge of his cot. “He’s going to surrender. They’re negotiating the terms right now.” he said, reaching for some rations to offer. He held out a chunk of bread to Canada. “It’s not that great, but it’s food.” His brother looked at him for a moment and then took it, biting into it.

Nibbling on some of his own food, he tried to decide how to proceed. Canada swallowed and broke the silence himself. “What do you want?”

Glancing up, America’s mouth twitched into a smile. “That’s a pretty open ended question. I want a lot of things.”

Canada rolled his eyes. “I’m not asking in a philosophical way. What are you hoping to gain by keeping me prisoner?”

“Don’t be dramatic. I’m sure England will exchange for you. Maybe I just want some of my soldiers back and you’re valuable.”

“That sounds too reasonable for you.” Canada said, the implied insult biting at America. 

He glared at him, fingers holding tight to the wooden frame of the cot. “How many soldiers do you think England would trade to have you up his backside again? Is it cozy there, Canada?” He hadn’t meant it to come out so angry. When he’d first seen the uniform he’d been shocked. As the reports of how close England kept Canada by his side came through, the more it bothered him. England chose Canada to lean on. It didn’t sit right with him at all.

“You would know.” Canada replied.

“I don’t, actually.” Their eyes met for a moment and then Canada looked away, anger crossing his face.

“I could ask the same of you I suspect. I’ve been hearing all sorts of rumors about you offering yourself up to France.” The resentment in Canada’s voice surprised America. He looked up at him. Canada’s hair was covering his face.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” England may suspect something, but America was hardly going to confirm anything to Canada. Raising his eyes, Canada looked at him again, examining him. A furrow appeared on his forehead.

“Fine, if that’s how you want to be.”

“I will always be myself. Maybe you should consider such a choice.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Canada’s voice had a combative edge. “I haven’t compromised myself.”

“We both know that’s a lie.”

“It’s as much a truth as your claim about not speaking with France.” America looked away and heard Canada sigh. “I’ll tell you about England if you ask me. I know you want to know. You can stop sniping at me.”

America grit his teeth, uncomfortable that Canada could read him like that. He almost didn’t ask, not wanting to give the other the satisfaction of being right. However, it was one of the things he’d dragged him all the way over here to know. “How is he?”

“To speak truth? A mess. Sometimes he looks at me and I can tell he’s only seeing you. I don’t know if he’s ever sober and he’s prone to rage without warning. You’ve certainly brought out the side of him that always frightened me when we were small.”

“But, you’re taking care of him?”

“I’m doing my best. I can’t... I can’t fill that hole you are leaving in him. Do you... are you still in love with him?” America didn’t answer. Canada got up, limping over to sit by America on the cot. “I promise whatever you say will be just between us. I have some things to say to you, not because of the war, but because we are brothers.”

“Fine, between us, does it really matter what I feel about him? I’m not coming back. He must hate me by now, anyway.”

“He hates you because he can’t sort out his feelings for you. I always thought Mr. France was being hyperbolic when he talked about him, but... well, I’ve seen it first hand now.”

“Well, if he’s still going on about that ‘discipline is love’ nonsense please punch him for me. Or perhaps push him down when he is drunk.” America tried to make it sound dismissive, but his voice quavered. Canada’s question made him nervous. Did he still want what he’d wanted back at the end of the French and Indian War, or had he moved past it? Everyone seemed to throw it in his face. Independence was the only emotion that made sense. Without even thinking he hooked his arm through Canada’s, feeling a little bit of comfort at his warmth. “What else did you want to say to me?”

Canada hesitated. He took a deep breath before speaking. “I’m worried about him. And you. He’s ill, America, I don’t know what to make of it.”

America pulled away slightly so he could watch Canada’s face. “Ill?”

Canada nodded. “I don’t even know the extent of it, but sometimes he’s in bed for days. He’ll emerge, shout at his generals. He doesn’t know I know, but he gets these coughing fits. I’ve been trying my best, but it’s like a part of him is dying.” America’s fingers balled into fists. Canada’s hand was cold when he lay it on top of America’s hands. “You’re hurting him.”

America bit out the words. “That’s the point isn’t it? He couldn’t hear me so I had to. He started it. We’re at war.” They were the words he needed to say, but deep down his heart filled with pain. Even on his angriest, most frightened days he didn’t really want to maim England, just to make him understand.

“Now, I know you’re denying talking to France---” The change of subject startled America.

“What about France?”

“I just... I don’t know if England will ever be able to take you back if you end up in France’s bed.” America yanked his arm out of Canada’s grip and stood up. Canada didn’t look up at him, which left America staring down at the top of his head. 

“What is wrong with you?! I would never give myself away for a musket.” America turned away, wrapping his arms around himself. France had been uncomfortably close, and the way Hesse had spoken it didn’t seem that uncommon for allies to bed each other, but would France ask given their history? America knew he didn’t know him that well. Why would Canada even think that? Anger washed through him. “Why, do you have a guilty conscious? Are you throwing yourself at England for security? Just wait until he orders you away from his side once he’s taken what he wants!”

Whirling around, he grabbed Canada by the front of his shirt and hauled him to his feet. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to hit him or just scare him. Canada looked into his eyes, sadness behind the hard look. “You really are just like him. Stubborn and only seeing what suits you, your visions just don’t match. I do what he asks because I choose to. I may not get a lot of choices, but I do get this one. You have no reason to be jealous of me. Please don’t give me a reason to be jealous of you.”

America’s fingers loosened. “I just... maybe this battle will show him he’s wrong about me. Maybe Parliament will force King George to give me independence and I can start over with him.”

“Maybe.”

“No way. I’ll fix it. It might take a while, but I won’t let him forget about me.” America gave his brother a goofy grin that he didn’t really feel. 

“I believe that.” Canada said, smiling a little too as he sat back down on the cot, rubbing at his wounded leg. America took the camp chair this time, wanting a little bit of distance. 

“Do you... do you think he’ll ask?” 

“Who? What?”

“France.” Canada’s face twitched and he bit his lip.

“I don’t know, but it wouldn’t be about you or me. It would be about England. It’s always been about England.” Canada stared at the ground and America slid out of the chair and knelt down in front of him.

“Do you understand why I had to rebel now?”

“If anyone understands, it’s me. But I still think you are wrong.”

“Well, I’ve still got time to change your mind. You’re going to be marched to Boston with the rest of the surrendered men. If England wants you back he can answer my letter. If you decide you want to join me... I’ll know. You can move out with the rest in the morning.”

Canada watched him for a moment. “If I stay here do I get to use the cot?”

“Only if you share.”

Canada laughed. “Fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! In the next installment, England stops being so full of himself and America can't stand seeing Canada's face. 
> 
> Some historical notes about 1777. The British began to realize by the end of the year that regaining New England was going to be next to impossible. Massachusetts at the very least was never going to come back into the fold. They began to set the stage for an invasion of the southern colonies with the hopes of recapturing them.
> 
> If you enjoyed our story and haven't yet left a comment or a kudo, please do so! We don't always have time to respond to comments, but your words mean a lot to us! Shuriken7 is the sentimental sort and she loves reading them when she's having writer's block. 
> 
> To all of our readers, you guys rock! :D


	13. Home, sweet home?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> England settles into his occupation of Philadelphia and takes up residence in America's house. Canada comes to join him after being released from the Convention Army. America makes a decision.

_November 1777_

_Philadelphia_

The air in the home was still as if space had not been disturbed in the longest of times. At one time woven rugs would have muffled his footsteps, furniture and paintings along the walls would have halted their echo. This was once a home filled with warmth and the laughter of a golden-haired child as he tromped down the stair to shout a hello before tackling him, nearly sending out of the house once more. At one point the fragrant scent of tea would have mixed with the bread that had been baked that morning by the housemaid. 

England could admit that he was often gone, but he was trying to build an empire, not to mention the squabbles in Europe. He could not have just stayed with America all of the time. He had already been accused of playing favorites with the North American colony. Walking over to the bay window in the front sitting room England pulled aside the drapery to stare out into the road, thoughts dark and all-consuming. Well, looking back, he could not ignore what the others had said. It was India who made him realize just how much he had been doting on America.

_“England you are here.” The comment was flat, one of annoyance. England stopped in the doorway. He had pulled into Amboina that morning and had simply taken care of port documents and stopped to talk to his port commander. After, he headed over to his lodgings. Frowning, he removed his hat and shucked his jacket, placing them neatly on the coat rack at the door._

_“My apologies, India. I did not mean to get caught up with the paperwork.”_

_“You spend so little time on them, I wonder if you are even interested anymore. If you are interested in continuing our trade relationship you should show more initiative. Perhaps I should consider limiting your ports further.”_

_“I have done something to upset you apparently.” England frowned, crossing his arms over his chest. India was out of character for the usually polite nation. Normally, their relationship was far more congenial. India was brilliant in many senses, and England respected him since they first met._

_“You are distracted. I don’t have time to deal with European children who are distracted by conquests elsewhere in the world.”_

_“What in the world are you talking about?” England was baffled. It was true he actually had no idea how much older India was, but they were equals! Not even, England was the one with the trade ships and navy to protect them. “There is not a single person on this planet that I would allow to-”_

_“Your colonies in North America. Especially the one with all the tobacco that you have been exporting. Are they truly that valuable?”_

_“What?”_

_“Favoritism will get you into trouble. Consider that as you go forward.”_

_“Favorite? India wait for one second-”_

_“I have things to do England, I will see you in the morning.” India turned and walked down the corridor of the palace, his footsteps ringing on the stone. England found himself unable to move from his spot. That had come out of nowhere. Favorite? Honestly? Yes, he was certainly guilty for spending so much time in the New World, but that didn’t mean that he picked favorites. Did it?_

Stepping back from the window England headed deeper into the house. Favorites, huh? Scotland had accused him of it as well. Ireland had sent his own nasty letter. The spell that had been attached to the paper had taken England two days to dispel. Granted, that one may have had to do more with religious laws, but it had to be done! He wasn’t giving America that much religious freedom, true that each colony had its own attitudes towards religious practice... Christ, he had been letting America go his own way for a century. But was he a favorite? The question burned in his mind after an outing with Gilbert in the Seven Years War. 

_“Arthur, are all the English slow on their horses or is it just you!” Prussia cackled loudly from atop his horse, yards ahead of the English country. England snorted, refusing to fall for the bait, but pressed his heels into the sides of his brown mare nonetheless._

_“Perhaps some of us enjoy a leisurely ride now and again. Not everything has to be a competition you know.” England sighed as he pulled astride the Prussian country. “Well...not when one is going to rule the world. But I guess you wouldn’t know about that would you?” He couldn’t help the jab that slipped past his grin. With a bark of laughter, he blocked the mocking punch thrown at him._

_“Well, when you are as awesome as I am I guess it doesn't have to be.” Prussia retorted. They were in the middle of a war and yet the pair had decided that an afternoon away from battle and strife would be a good distraction from the disaster at hand. “But you are slower than usual today. And I don’t think you’ve lectured me once. I figured we agreed to not think about the war today.”_

_“Yes. I am keeping to that agreement.” England protested. “But, I have other things on my mind.”_

_“Such as?” Silver eyebrow raised, Prussia personified fell abnormally silent._

_"I have been accused of playing favoritism with one of my colonies.” England admitted, embarrassment coloring his cheeks._

_"Ah."  Prussia gave a knowing nod "You’re just hearing this now?"_

_"What?!" England stared at him surprised. "You too?! You also think that I am playing favorites?"_

_"Not on purpose. But it is evident that you have been favoring America. It's not your fault. I sometimes find myself spending copious amounts of time with Ludwig, Germany you know, and my other brothers have expressed their discontent with it. Sometimes shit happens. I don't have a favorite. But Ludwig holds a special place in my heart that Christoph can't touch. Christoph cannot be replaced by Ludwig, never. But there is just something. If I asked you who was your favorite Canada or America who would you pick?"_

_"You can't expect me to pick one!" England said exasperatedly._

_“Exactly. That would be unfair of me. And I don’t think that you love America more than Canada. But if you think about it, there is something special. A little piece extra that belongs to America. Am I wrong? It is the same for Ludwig and I.” the Albino grinned widely, red eyes bright from the ride and something else._

_“Tch. When did you get so wise?” England muttered raising his reins._

_“I am just awesome. Always have been and always will be. Awesome enough to beat you back to your stables too!” he barked, kicking his steed._

_“Over my bloody dead body!” England laughed and spurred his mare forward._

“I guess it is time to fill the house again.” England muttered as the front door opened.  “Yes?”

“General Howe was looking for you, my Lord.”

“Of course. Tell him I will be there momentarily. And to have a runner ready. I am sending for Colonel Williams.”

***

_Late November 1777_

England sat at the writing desk. The paperwork never seemed to end. He reached for his box of red ribbons to tie up the sensitive military correspondence. Tilting the wax he watched each drip land on the paper and cloth, stamping his seal into it before dropping it into a basket. He would send a Private with it to headquarters tomorrow. He leaned back in his chair, stretching the stiffness in his shoulders from being bent over the papers all day.

Perhaps it was time for a cup of tea, new supplies had come into the harbor yesterday and there would likely not be any more reliable supply shipments until the seas calmed down in the new year. Footsteps sounded on the floorboards, no doubt a servant coming to ask him if he needed anything. He stood up, intending to tell the man he’d get it himself, but he froze when he saw the young man in the doorway.

Yellow hair, dirty face, jacket gone and the rest of his clothes could have been any color originally. No weapons. “I’m back.” 

‘I’m back’ that was a phrase that England had heard multiple times in a gratifying sleep. In sleep that provided him relief from the stress and worries breaking his back. He had gotten up for tea, and now he was not so sure that had been the greatest of ideas. The sudden appearance of the young man caused his knees to buckle and he was quick to grab the arms of his chair to stop his fall. It was not possible. “America?!”

The boy hurried forward when England began to stumble and caught him by the elbow, keeping him upright. He was quiet for a moment, the corner of his mouth dipping into a frown. Then as soon as the expression had appeared it changed to passiveness. “I’m sorry, Mr. England, but it’s me, Canada. I was just released from the prison in Boston. I’m sure you heard about General Burgoyne’s failed battle.”

“Canada...” England felt himself deflate. It was disappointment that coursed through his system at that revelation; he would not deny that. However, a sense of relief piggybacked that disappointment. It would have been a gift from the heavens that America would have realized his mistake and come back, but nonetheless, one of them was here.  “No, No reason to apologize.” in a rush of emotion he grabbed the boy, embracing him. The boy was thinner than the last time they had been together; War was a trying time for all, the weight loss was not surprising but no less upsetting.  “You are back, and you are safe. That is what is important right now. Wait, prison?” He held Canada at arm’s length and looked him over.

Canada looked down at his feet. “I suppose I must be the bearer of bad news. General Burgoyne suffered a major defeat at Saratoga. Over 6000 men were captured, myself among them. America must have gotten me released... since you were unaware of what happened. The rest of the men are waiting to be transported back to England.” Canada rubbed at his leg, the pant leg stained a red-brown. He caught England staring. “I was wounded in the battle, but I am better now. America sent for a doctor for me.”

“Yes, I was aware of the failure.” he sighed. Pulling his handkerchief from his pocket, he rubbed at some of the dirt on Canada’s forehead. A sense of parental concern is flooded his chest. “However, I had not been informed of your imprisonment.” 

Threading his fingers through the younger's hair, he took note of Canada’s state. He didn’t look like he’d been mistreated. America’s army was being extremely particular about following the rules of war. Perhaps he thought he could outmaneuver England by following his rules better than the one who wrote them.

“Well, at least the boy has remained loyal to you.” he sighed before licking a corner of the cloth and scrubbed at the colonies cheek. “Ms. Farlen!” he called out for the housemaid that was walking past the door.

“Yes, my Lord?”

“I want an extra plate set at the supper table. Plenty of food served. Moreover, before that have Marie start heating water and prep the tub, and an extra set of clothes. All of this needs to be done immediately please.” Ms. Farlen nodded in understanding and with a swish of skirts, she rushed down the hall to fulfill the demands. Looking back at Canada he smiled softly. “How about you wash up and eat, we can talk over tea about unpleasant things.”

Canada sat in relative silence at his seat in the parlor. His back was stiff and his eyes focused anywhere but England. He looked better now, tidier. When he wasn’t covered in mud and blood, Canada was visibly different than America. Thinner, his hair lighter and softer. That being said, the boy could eat exactly like America could. He seemed to realize England was watching him over the cup of his tea because he stopped. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to forget my manners.”

England waved his hand dismissively. “You honestly cannot think I care at the moment. If you want more just tell Ms. Farlen. Please, Canada, I have raised you since you were knee-high, there is no reason for you to be self-conscious. Especially now.” He waved a hand and a footman darted back down to the kitchens to bring additional food.

Canada poked at some of the food on his plate, then started in again. He’d eaten nearly three additional plates of food before he stopped. He folded his hands in his lap. “Thank you.” he said, glancing at England for a moment, then turning his attention to the rest of the room. His brow furrowed, then the corner of his mouth curved up, an uncomfortable smile. “I keep waiting for you to ask, like the next shoe is going to drop.”

“To ask.” England's fingers tightened on his teacup. He cleared his throat and sighed, setting down his tea cup. “I was hoping to wait for unpleasant topics until we had left the table. I suppose I will ask then. How is he?”

“Proud of himself. This is his greatest victory of the war. Other than that, he’s hungry, disorganized, and he still thinks he’s right... but your generals have probably already told you that...” Canada ran a finger along the edge of his tea cup. His eyes flicked up to England’s. He opened his mouth to say something more, but then closed it and went back to staring at anything, but England.

Pursing his lips England stayed silent. Part of of him was angry, angry that America still thought that he was right. The boy was being foolish and young. But the other part of him was concerned. War was not easy on anyone, especially a country. America probably wasn't in the best condition. “Look at me Canada. What do you think?”

Canada looked up at him. “He... why does it matter what I think?”

“Because, I care about your opinion in this matter as well Canada.” England frowned looking at the boy. Didn’t he know he could come to him with anything?

A troubled expression crossed Canada’s face. “I... I think that’s part of the problem. I think he shouldn’t have done what he has, but... you didn’t listen to him. Not that you have to listen to colonies.” Canada’s voice trailed off and he looked at England like he was a powder keg next to an open flame. He looked ready to brave an explosion. “I don’t think you are seeing what is in front of your nose. I think you should talk to him.”

Breathing deeply through his nose, England tried to calm himself. Canada had always been the diplomatic out of the twins. When it was time for chores Canada would offer to delegate and split the tasks between himself and America. And of course, America being as hot headed back then as he was now would throw a fit, often he’d completely disappear and finish the project at his own pace. He leaned back in the chair and rubbed at his temples. “I think this discussion should not continue. I have tried more than once to speak with your brother and it has not turned out well. Let us leave it at that.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.” Canada reached across the table, gently placing his hand on England’s arm. “But he’ll talk to me. I could deliver a letter or some other message for you. I could go back to Boston, he’ll find me there.”

“You are not a carrier pigeon, Matthew.” England frowned looking at him. “But...I...I shall think on it. Though you could use a haircut, I don’t mind that you keep it long, but it’s getting to the point where you are going to look like that Frog.” Reaching up he tugged at the blond hair that was beginning to curl up along the boy's shoulders.

Canada’s eyes dropped from England’s face. He fiddled with the edge of the tablecloth. “I’ll ask someone to cut it. I don’t want to cause you any distress.”

England all but snorted. “I will cut it” he pushed himself up from the chair. “Just stay there I will be right back. I’ve done it before, don’t you remember.” With that, he would have to go to his room to fetch the shears. 

When he returned, Canada was still sitting where he’d told him to stay. Stepping up behind the boy he tilted his head upwards, running a comb through the boys hair. As he began to cut Canada's hair he couldn't help but hum. The action was familiar and even though nothing was ever truly simple for a country, it did remind him of a simpler time. “Matthew...I know you and Alfred are very close...but you two are your own...and I know he….his answer... but... you still love me right? You don't hate me?” England got quiet, his question a whisper.

Canada turned in his seat and looked at him. He stood up. He hesitated for a moment, but then wrapped his arms around England. “I don’t hate you.” 

England was conflicted, part of him was pleased that Canada denounced his fear of hatred, but with only part of his question answered a new knot formed in his belly. He returned the physical affection but his looked at that table, contemplating “That is a relief to know.” he murmured 

“America... he doesn’t hate you either.” His voice was so soft, England wasn’t even sure he heard it, or if it was just wishful thinking. Canada stepped back, “Is there anything I can do for you? I want to be useful.”

“How about you get some sleep. I had Mary, the housemaid, set up one of the guest rooms while you bathed. How about we go for a walk after breakfast?” He smiled as he double checked his handy work on the colony’s hair. “Mary, that shipment of brandy made its way to my study correct?” He asked as the woman began to clean up the supper plates. 

“Yes, m’Lord” 

“Good. Will you show Master Matthew to his room.” He smiled his thanks before looking back at the boy. “I will see you in the morning then?”

Canada paused in the doorway and nodded. “Yes, sir.”

***

England would admit that Roderich had always been more musically inclined than he ever would be. However, he did have pride in his ability to play the violin. Despite the biting temperatures outside of the home, the hearths kept it comfortable inside. England had woken up and been informed that Matthew had shown no signs of waking. Opting to just take tea and wait to dine until the boy woke he took up the instrument. 

The bow, rosined to perfection easily glided over the strings. Deep, melodious notes blended over each other as he played a familiar tune. Surprisingly he woke up with no headache, no headache, but that pain in his chest was back.  Pleased, his fingers moved over the instruments neck with practiced ease. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted a figure in the doorway, one too tall to be one of his maids.  “Good morning, Matthew.”

“Good morning, Lord Kirkland.” Canada replied, going along with the use of human names. “Please don’t stop on my account. I haven’t heard you play in a long time.”

England nodded “We are alone…..Arthur will suffice.” he murmured, changing to a new tune as that one ended.  With another tilt of his head he motioned towards the chair by the hearth. “Did you sleep well?”

“You could have made me sleep on the floor and I would have slept better than I had in months. The accommodations in Ticonderoga were a little sparse and then we were chasing America’s army through the woods.” Canada settled down onto the sitting couch. “It’s kind of nice to wake up to actual music instead of pipes and drums.”

“Well good thing I can get one thing done right.” he chuckled, feeling the bite of self deprecation. “Well, you will be able to listen to more music soon. I am holding a soiree here in the upcoming month and I do hope you will attend. I have no problem overwriting your orders.” He nodded as Ms. Farlen appeared in the doorway to announce breakfast. England lowered his bow, placing the violin in its place.

Canada smiled. “It might be nice to spend the winter this far south, it would be a new experience.”

“Yes, a new experience indeed.” England murmured gesturing Canada to follow him. Breakfast was always a quiet affair, it always had been, even when the boys were young. Although that was mainly due to the fact that the towns were still half asleep when it happened. _A new experience? I'm hoping that you don't mind the company either_. “It started snowing last night so the walk I planned will have to be cut short. Although, I still will be going to speak with General Howe. You are more welcome to accompany me or whatever you please this afternoon.”

“I will accompany you, if you don’t mind.” Canada tilted his head. “I hope it is not too bold to say, but I am happy you seem to be well. I... worried about you.”

England stopped dead as Matthew spoke. He had just lifted one of the breakfast biscuits to his mouth when the other expressed his concern. Looking up at the boy his brow furrowed. “Worried about me? Whatever for? Even if I was shot in battle I wouldn't die.”

Canada looked at him, then tilted his head, blond hair falling over his eyes. He reached for his breakfast. “Of course, I just worry about my brothers.” He started in on his own breakfast. “I heard from one of the officers that Captain Cook discovered a land that you claimed in the Pacific. Is it true? Do you think someone like us is there?”

“That is what I am hoping.” England nodded, looking down at the biscuit on his plate. He waited for the nausea to return. He was more surprised that he hadn't woken with the Feeling. The Feeling had been a constant companion in the war and it was almost unnerving that his stomach was not rolling. Swallowing, he leaned back and a flush of pleasure heated his body as he didn't even ask as a short glass of brandy was placed by his right hand. With a nod of thanks he lifted the glass to his mouth, the liquor burning a trail down his throat centering him. It would be nice to find someone who hadn't decided they were angry at him. “It would be nice if there was. I was ecstatic when you and your brother showed up. It's an experience like none other, raising a country. I was proud to get to raise you, to still be here.” He downed the glass, and raised it to have it refilled.

“It would be interesting to have another brother.” Canada replied, sipping at his coffee. England could see Canada watching the servant as his glass was filled once again. “Someday, I’d like to explore the lands to the west, see what is out there. Amer-- nevermind.” 

“Well, now that you are old enough, next time come with me.” England rolled his glass around before partaking of half the liquor, choosing to ignore the end of Canada’s sentence. Looking back at the other he could see the concern stamped on Canada’s face. He sat the glass down and raised his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, that's the last one” He was well aware that it was early to be drinking potent spirits, but it was one of the few things he could still keep down all the time. Eyeing his breakfast he opted to err on the side of caution, and placed his napkin on the table. He would try eating later. 

“If you’d like, I could make you something to eat later. It would be like the house in Jamestown, when we didn’t have any servants.”

“I was actually going to make scones soon” he admitted. Seeing the slight disappoint on Canada's face he added quickly, “But, yes! Yes, of course, you're more than welcome to cook. I would love it!” 

The silence that followed was uncomfortable. It was very quiet. Ah. Looking over England realized that the hearth in the dining room had gone mute, the fire fading out. Seizing up the four logs in the fireplace he deemed them more than suitable. With a snap of his fingers a fire roared to life once more, smoke chugging up the chimney.

Canada gave him a small smile. “I’ll do my best to help you.”

***

“Sir, are you sure…”

“Ms. Farlen, I have got it under control!”

“Of course m’Lord... but they are burning.”

“No! It's my Mum's recipe! It's supposed to be like that!” England protested. Scowling at the bread oven, he tried to figure out what was going on. Maybe he hadn't raked out all of the ashes? Did the bricks get too hot? Scratching his cheek, he sighed looking at the flour all over his apron. It had been a long time since he baked, but he didn't remember ever getting this covered in, well, the dough.

Canada had been sitting on the other side of the kitchen table, rolling out some dough himself. Unlike England’s predicament, Canada was fairly clean, he was in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat and had pushed the linen of his shirt over his wrists. Not a speck of flour could be seen anywhere on his clothes. “Here Lord Kirk... I mean, Arthur. I was watching and made some. Maybe we could let Mrs. Farlen supervise them while I work on the soup?” 

“I can do this.” England scowled. “They are my scones.” Looking at the table, he frowned when he noticed that the candle was out. Opening his mouth he closed it quickly, contemplating. “Matthew... light the candle”

Mrs. Farlen had exited in a huff, muttering about British noblemen and no wonder her cousin had opinions. Canada looked at it, his face looking unsure. “I haven’t done that since I was little.”

“You haven't been practicing?” England frowned but gave an encouraging nod. “You can do it. Go ahead. You always did take a shine to it, honestly, I thought you could have been as good as me if you kept on it.”

Canada blushed, smiling a little. He turned his attention to the candle and concentrated. The flame didn’t take the first few times, just a flicker and puff of smoke. But in little less than a quarter of an hour, Canada had gotten the candle to burst into life.

With a grin of approval England leaned against the wooden surface. “That's a good lad, see I told you that you could do it.” he nodded “You should keep up on your practicing. Little things like that can be helpful in day to day and on the field. Remember that.”

“Yes, sir.” Canada said. Suddenly, he jumped up to rescue some of the dough England had put into the oven. The dark smoke was thick and Canada emerged coughing a little. He set the food down on the table and hurried to the window to open it and let clean air in.

“Bloody hell!” England snapped, rushing over to his scones. Well, what had been scones. He had gotten distracted again. Burned them again. “Well, I guess it's good that I made more than one batch of dough. Good catch, Matthew.” He patted Canada on the head. Honestly, England was surprised with himself. He should be furious at himself for such a rookie mistake, but that morning he seemed to be wrapped up in a pleasant mood. He had spent the night in a sea of brandy soaked nostalgia and the warmth had continued on through the day. It had been a long time since he had been in such a mood, his stresses seemed unimportant and for the first time in months the nause. Swallowing the emotion that crawled up his throat he attempted to dust himself off. “Well, I guess we try again.”

Canada began to work on the soup, leaving England to the baking. In no time at all the kitchen became awash with the smell of chicken soup and burnt bread. For a moment England watched his colony cooking in his kitchen, a familiar sight.  He cleared his throat quietly, there it was, that burning in his lungs again. Reaching into one of the cabinets, his fingers closed around a familiar glass bottle. Making sure the younger male had his back turned he popped the top and took a swig of the brandy. Pushing it back into the cabinet he closed it quietly. 

By the time the soup was finished there were a few bricks of burnt scones and some lovely looking soup that made England’s stomach growl. He’d been feeling hollow for so long he’d almost forgotten what it felt like to look forward to eating. “Don’t worry about the scones, I can make us something later.” Canada said, patting England on the arm as he stared down at a plate of what appeared to be lumps of coal. “Do you want to eat, now?”

England gave him an exasperated look. “Oh, come now. They didn't all burn!” He pointed to a plate of scones that hadn't all turned become something akin to weapons of war. “You and….you used to like my scones! You ate them as a kid all of the time!”

Canada’s face fell a little bit, England was sure it was the almost mention of a certain someone he had drank away the night before. “I remember.” Canada said. He busied himself with gathering up dishes to carry them into the parlor. “I look forward to eating them.” he said, boosting some cheery friendliness into his voice.

Honestly, England was shocked that it just hit him. America and England had been fighting back and forth for so long and then there was Canada. Canada had been in between the two of them the entire time and Canada had sided with him and the strain that it had put between the two colonies. The weight that had seemed to lift off of his shoulders was back and heavier than ever. 

In a split decision, he grabbed the boy. The sound of chinaware shattering against the floor filled the room, as he pulled the younger blonde into a hug. Squeezing him tight, he noticed that Canada had gotten taller, even taller than him.  “I am so sorry.” he murmured and pressed a kiss to the side of his temple as he stroked his hair. “I am sorry”

Canada froze, England had obviously shocked him. Slowly, he returned the embrace. “You don’t have to apologize...”

“Yes, I do.” he protested, stepping back and cupping Canada’s face. “I have been so wrapped up in myself that I didn't think about you. I was very insensitive. I am so sorry.” He shook his head and hugged him again. “Matthew-”

“My Lord, I’m sorry to interrupt, but General Howe is in the sitting room.” Marie appeared in the doorway with a bow. 

England frowned in concern. _Shit._ The pain was coming back again, faster than before. “That is sudden. William didn't call ahead. Tell him that I will be out in a moment. Then please come back with the broom. I broke a dish set.” Looking at the boy again he pressed a kiss to his temple again and left the kitchen. Heading out into the front sitting room, England felt the worry return in full force. “William is there something wrong?” England frowned, seeing Howe staring into the hearth with a frown. 

“You have been drinking all day again?” The middle-aged man frowned. “Are you having the pains again?”

“Yes.” he nodded. There was no point in lying to the general. They had worked together for far too long for the man to fall for one of his lies. 

“My Lord something-”

“I was right then. Something did happen on the fifteenth.” England raked his hands through his hair. “That was when the pain started getting worse. What happened? I know you brought papers.”

“My Lord...the last time I brought you news you collapsed.”

“And I have been puking up blood for a week,” he hissed, “At least let me know why.” Thrusting his hand forward he demanded the papers he knew was in the general’s coat. With a curl of his upper lip, he glared at William until the man returned the envelope. It hurt. 

“To all to whom these Presents shall come, we, the undersigned Delegates of the States affixed to our Names send greeting. Whereas the Delegates of the United States of America in Congress assembled did on the fifteenth day of November in the year of our Lord One Thousand Seven Hundred and Seventy seven, and in the Second Year of the Independence of America agree to certain articles of Confederation of perpetual Union between the States of America...” Taking a deep breath he crumpled the letter in his hands “They made this piece...this piece of shit on the fifteenth? And we are just getting this now?!” 

“We don’t have the whole thing. One of our spies intercepted a piece of a copy. This transcript is all we have, and we are looking for other copies.”

“This is- Bastards! Fucking arse-holes! Why can’t they just sod off! Hang them from a damn tree or something useful!” he snapped, throwing the paper at the wall. Then the coughing started again.

“Kirkland. Shit”

England couldn’t stop coughing. He knew how the battle of Saratoga had gone because he had collapsed that day as well. The coughing, it wouldn’t stop, it hurt. And there, again, the red in his hand, more blood than last time. Blood, he had been coughing it up on and off ever since the rebellion started and the attacks had been getting worse. 

At least he was kneeling in the middle of his sitting room rather than in the middle of camp. Howe’s hands were on his back, grounding him for the split second before the wave of coughing started again. Damn, he was going to have to get the carpet clean. It was one of his favorite pieces that he had added to the house. It was quite soft, he hadn't realized how plush it was until now his cheek was pressed up against it. It was easier to breath laying on his side rather than on his knees. "It will pass." he choked, protesting as he heard Howe call for Ms. Farlen. Completely unnecessary. 

When two faces appeared in the doorway, England wished he could melt into the floor. Canada was leaning over him before he could even tell someone to take him away. The humans looked at him, as though young Canada would have any idea what to do about his affliction. England tried to speak, but it only caused another fit. Spots danced in front of his eyes. Just before he blacked out he heard Canada calling for the servants to get him off the floor and into a bed.

England couldn’t be sure how much time had passed when he blinked up at the canopy above his bed. A weight was on the bed near his hip. He looked down to see that Canada had fallen asleep in a chair, his head resting on his crossed arms. 

Worry filled England’s chest. Canada had seen, he knew something was wrong. He could feel the cough rising in his throat again, he stifled it with his palm, looking for something to ease his throat. Thank God for Howe, he’d put a bottle of port on the side table. He reached for the bottle, not even bothering with the glass sitting next to it. He pulled out the cork and downed a few gulps, the liquor settling in his stomach. He tipped the bottle back once more, but then felt the bottle being pulled from his fingers. 

Canada clutched the bottle to his chest, his eyes wide with fear. “How long have you been like this?” His eyes dropped from England’s face. “I knew you were sick, but... I didn’t know you were this bad.”

Scooting up the bed, he propped himself up with pillows, heaving a sigh he motioned for the bottle. He frowned when Canada refused to relinquish his hold. He shrugged. “It’s...it has been a while... I had my first attack on the fourth of July 1776. And..it has continued to progress as the rebellion has continued. I was hoping I would not have another attack until you had gone.” 

“Does this, I mean, is this sort of reaction normal?”

“For a civil war of this magnitude...probably. I have never had one this big. Not only is America trying to leave...but people here in the colonies are not agreeing upon the rebellion. People back home are disagreeing….I have been struggling since the Seven Years War... my other interests are upset with how much time I am spending here. It...it is a lot to deal with at once. Even when Charles I and the Long Parliament were at odds, I did not have this severe of a reaction.”

“Can I do something?” Canada’s face paled a little. “I mean, this is my fault too... my English-speaking people and my French-speaking people... they don’t know whose side to be on.”

“Matthew, it's fine. Do not worry yourself over it, you are helping already, I could not ask for more.” He cleared his throat as another set of coughs threatened. Leaning his head back he allowed his eyes to close for a brief moment. “I just need some rest. That is all.”

Canada sat back down in his chair. “I can stay with you, you shouldn’t be alone.”

“Don’t you have plans...to go back to him?” England frowned. “I am not alone. And I won’t ask you to change your plans. Plus, I have things I want to send back with you. Could you do that for me?”

“I said that I would talk to him for you. You want me to go with you so unwell?”

“The faster you leave the faster you can return. Maybe even before christmas?” he smiled.”I did have enough rations put aside from my last set to make plum pudding.”

Canada’s look of concern did not fade. “What message would you have me take to him?”

England looked away, opting to take a special interest in the drapery. “I will be sending you with rations. Extra. That's it.”

“You just want me to take him food?”

England sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose he grabbed his handkerchief as another coughing attack came on. When it had passed, he nodded. “Yes, Matthew. Just food.”

Still looking unsure, Canada nodded. “I will leave as soon as possible.”

“Thats a good lad... you should be able to leave today.” He broke for another fit of coughs “I have kept you long enough.”

***

_Early December 1777_

_Boston, Massachusetts_

America didn’t know why he was sitting there in his parlor of his Boston home. The British soldiers that had seized it in the early days of the war had made a mess of the place. All of his silver was gone, any goods that would have fetched a price had also been stolen. Some of his furniture had even been chopped up for firewood. He was certain the only reason his bed frame was still in tact was that there was no room to swing an ax. 

The only benefit to the place was that it was warm once he’d gotten the fire going. He wasn’t exactly looking forward to returning to the winter quarters with the army. It was shaping up to be a cold winter and the season had barely started. Despite that, he would go. If his people were going to spend the winter cold and hungry he would be there with them. He couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.

The chair he’d managed to salvage was tilting slightly, he could tell the missing leg was going to be a problem. He watched the small pot of water begin to boil in the fire. It was a good thing he carried it with him, because there was little to spare. The privateers could only do so much as winter set in. It became that much more dangerous to run things up and down the coast. He dipped his cup into the water and held it between his hands. 

His fingers seemed to creak as they began to warm up. He dropped a few ground acorns into it, it looked like coffee even if it didn’t taste like it. He began to blow on the water. The knock on the door nearly caused him to drop it. No one knew he was here. He hadn’t told a soul. 

Setting his cup down carefully on the hearth he stood up, reaching for his pistol. In theory, no one dangerous could be at his door, the city had been secured. England’s generals had lost interest in  the hotbed of rebellion. He walked towards the door and pushed back the heavy cloth he used to hold in the heat. “Who is it?”

“America, please let me in.”

_Canada?_ “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you” Canada sighed shifting the bag over his shoulder. “Stop hiding behind the door. Why else would I be here?” he said quietly as America opened the door. America stepped back and tucked his pistol behind his back. 

“It’s not a very good hiding place if you found me.” America frowned at him as Canada walked into the parlor and got closer to the fire, warming his hands. He shrugged out his cloak and revealed that he was wearing his normal clothes, no hint of a military uniform. “And I can think of a few reasons for you to be here, and very few of them are any good. When I told them to release you I expected you to go north and get your militias, I could use more men. You didn’t, which means you went to England in Philadelphia and now you’re here under the guise of a civilian. What does he want?”

“You are my twin. I will always find you.” he straightened, stretching his back with a small groan of satisfaction. “And I told you that I did not agree with what you are doing. Providing you with militia means that I approve of your actions. We already talked about this. I told you when you tried to invade Quebec.” 

“You were there at the battle. You saw what I can do. I can win this war.”

“Okay, let’s say you win the war. Where does that leave me? Do I just become your colony, America?”

The question caught him off guard. “I hadn’t really gotten that far, but you could be a state.”

“Maybe I don’t want to just be part of you.”

“But being a part of England is okay?”

Canada frowned. He reached for something under his cloak and America tensed, his fingers holding tighter to his pistol. It wasn’t a weapon, he picked up a bag and held it out to America. Even from that distance, America could tell it was bulging with food. “We’re not going to talk about that anymore. Please respect my choice. But in response to your other question, yes, I went to see England. He is sick. Worse than even I thought.”

America pressed his lips together as his heart fell a notch. “I don’t care.” he said, hoping he sounded convincing. Canada stared at him, seeing right through the facade. They’d known each other for too long.

“He wanted me to bring you this, and a letter.” The rush of anger was irrational, America knew it, but he didn’t care. Was he still not good enough for England to come ask to talk to him himself? On equal terms?  

“Oh, a letter, of course. The good little colony runs off to his master. I wish you’d listen to the part of you that does want to join me.” America scooped up his makeshift coffee from the ashes and sat back in the broken chair. Canada could be sneaky when he wanted to, and it didn’t sit well with him. “And if he’s sick he should go back to his own lands and take his soldiers with him.” He took a big sip from his cup, wincing as he burnt his tongue. He was half-tempted to toss it away, it tasted even worse with Canada standing there. However, he was loathe to waste it.

“If you don’t want the rations than I shall take them with me. But the letter is addressed to you so I will leave that here.” Canada balled his fist. America wanted him to try it, he would enjoy knocking Canada down today. He seemed to think better of it because he took a deep breath before saying, “I won’t be staying long. I am heading back to Philadelphia soon as I am able.”  

America stared at the letter Canada sat down on what was left of the table. As Canada pulled the bag, America grabbed it. His stomach growled at the thought of food. He nearly reached inside, but then let go. The bag fell to the floor with a thunk. “Put the letter in the fire. And I’m not taking this either, who knows what he’s done to it.” His stomach ached at the thought of turning it down, but this was about the principle of the thing!

“Don’t be so stubborn. If England wanted to poison you he would have done it a long time ago. Plus with your cast iron stomach it's not like he could do much.” His nose wrinkled “You weren’t the one eating his scones a couple of weeks ago. But if you don’t want to take the items for his Mince-pye then I will.” 

“So, he’s in my house in Philadelphia? I figured.”

“The worst he did while I was there was ruin the carpet and almost burn the house down.” He shrugged turning to warm his hands over the fire again. “And I won't burn the letter. If you want to then you have to do it.”

America reached for the letter, knowing that wax seal better than anything. He could remember when he would get letters with that same stamp, and it was the brightest point of the day. It was thick, heavy with pages. He looked at Canada who was studiously not watching him. America stepped closer to the fire and held the paper over it. All he had to do was let go and whatever England had to say was lost to time. He should do it, but his fingers wouldn’t move. Finally he moved it to the top of the bare mantle, leaving it there. “You should get out of here before someone accuses you of being a spy.”

At that, Canada chuckled. “Honestly, no one even noticed me.” He shrugged “But now that I know that you are all right, I guess I can leave. You seem to be in a hurry to rid yourself of me and to pout alone in a corner so just let me make myself scarce. Just hand me the bag since you don’t seem to want it and I shall be on my way.” Canada reached for the bag once more. He kept pushing, but he knew America and the lad had always been in love with food. And he was hungry, chipping away at his pride. 

“I didn’t say I didn’t want it, I said I’m not going to take it.” It took all the willpower he had, but he shoved the food back towards Canada. “England might think it appropriate to wine and dine with his generals, but I’m not like that.”

“He wanted me to tell you Happy Christmas by the way.” America knew that was a lie. Canada shouldered the bag. “He made me carry this heavy bag all the way here, but I guess I’ll just give it away to someone else. I will tell him you took it though. That makes things easier on me. Are you really sure you are going to turn down food? Is your pride worth it?” 

Canada had a look in his eye that was way too much like England’s in America’s opinion. America frowned at him. What was Canada trying to do? “You’re not going to goad me into taking it. Things are going to change in the new year.”

“All right.” he shrugged, pulling on his cloak. “Well, if there is nothing else that I can do for you then I will be on my way. I won’t bother you any longer.  I wish you a Happy Christmas as well America.”

America didn’t say anything, he just waited for Canada to leave. Finally, his brother tromped off back into the snow. America decided he would leave for Valley Forge, that way if Canada came back he’d find nothing but an empty house. “It would have been a far happier Christmas if you’d decided to join me.” he muttered, closing the door.

He walked back into the parlor and dropped down in his chair, warming up the chill he’d gotten from standing on the front steps. The letter’s parchment was bright against the brick of the fireplace. He stood up and took it, holding it for a moment. He held it over the fire again and found the strength to let go.

He didn’t look away until the flames had turned the paper to ash. England could say whatever he wanted, America didn’t have to listen anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! In the next installment America finds himself under the wing of a certain awesome German nation. England has an accident.


	14. Lessons in War and Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> America gains a mentor in someone he didn't expect and he learns some unwelcome truths. England gets some bad news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Alcohol abuse on England's part.

_December 20, 1777_

_Valley Forge, Pennsylvania_

America was getting really tired of being cold. After the loss at the Battle of White Marsh they’d come here. It wasn’t the most ideal location, England was only twenty miles away in Philadelphia, but the terrain was to their advantage. They’d been working hard to construct more huts, but timber was far away and axes scarce. Many more would be needed before winter really got underway. Too many were still in tents and America huddled near a campfire in a haphazard group of them. Wrapping the blanket tighter around his shoulders he stretched his boots out towards the fire. They were looking worn and he could feel the cold air sneaking in between sole and boot leather. America sighed, at least he still had his boots. There weren’t any extra to be had.

They were dangerously low on supplies. If Benjamin Franklin wasn’t successful soon and France continued to refuse help... they would be in trouble. As far as he could tell England had no clue exactly how little America had. If he did, no doubt he’d be here to put America’s army down. England had supplies from his ships, America had nothing but what they’d stockpiled or could capture. 

Stretching out his hands towards the fire America wondered what he should do next. Something had to change this winter. He’d been at war for over two years now, but everything had changed. So many things had started going wrong with England on his shores.

He leaned back in the camp chair, running his hands through his hair. He couldn’t let England get inside his head like this. _I hope you’re having a merry holiday, England, warm in the house that_ I _built while waiting for you to come back. You and Canada can choke on your holiday feast._ The image of Canada sitting at his desk or in his chair by the fire turned his mood for the worse. He stood up and offered his blanket to the soldier sitting next to him. He began to make his way through the camp. Perhaps he could talk to Major Tallmadge or Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton, they’d likely have something he could do for General Washington. 

Someone brushed past him, his coat very fine, head bowed over a notebook in which he was writing with a pencil. He was speaking to himself under his breath in German. America turned, watching him as the strange man continued to walk. There was something about him that drew America’s attention. He wasn’t human. 

There was another nation walking through his camp. His hair was white underneath his black tricorn hat and his coat looked like it had been made recently. When he turned to examine the walls of one of the huts, America at first thought his eyes were brown, but when he looked directly at America he could see that they were red.

“You.” he said, his accent harsh. He began to walk towards him. The tone had made America feel like he needed to snap to attention. The white haired man stopped in front of him. “You’re America?”

“Yes.” America frowned, confused by the other nation’s presence. “And who are you?”

The white haired nation grinned. “ _Königreich Preußen._ ”

“Prussia?” America’s eyes widened at connecting the face to the name he’d heard many times. “I’ve heard about you. Why are you in my camp?”

Prussia laughed, delight crossing his features. “So, the eyebrow bastard used to talk about me, huh? As to your second question, I’ll answer it as soon as you show me around.” He turned and continued in the direction he’d been traveling before America had interrupted him. “You can take dictation can’t you?” He thrust the notebook at America when he’d caught up and America began to look at it. It was a list of criticisms! He flipped back a few pages and saw that there were quite a lot of notes.

“What is this?” America asked, referring to the paper. Prussia stopped.

“Is this one your lodgings?” Prussia said, pointing at one of the huts.

“No, it is that one over there. Hey, are you going to answer--” Prussia didn’t say anything but went towards the building and pulled open the door going inside. America hesitated on the threshold, a little unsure. _Hesse is his brother, right? Whose side is he on? How’d he get here anyway?_

America ran through a list of things that he knew about Prussia. It was short and it all kept coming back to a letter he’d accidentally read amongst England’s personal correspondence. Prussia had been propositioning England for more soldiers and supplies during the Seven Years War. Red faced at the memory of the awkward conversation with England he stepped into the hut to face Prussia.

In the minute he’d dawdled, Prussia had found flint and started lighting the candles, sending the wood and mud hut into at least some light. He took a seat at America’s field desk and picked up a paper that was lying on top and began to read. America hurried over and snatched the paper out of his hand as well as the rest of the documents on his desk. Prussia watched him with an amused expression on his face. “What are you doing here? Are you a spy for England? Is that why you won’t be forthcoming with your purpose?”

Prussia raised an eyebrow at him. “No wonder your camp is such a mess. No patience, no discipline. It’s truly a wonder you’ve lasted this long.”

“I have discipline.” America countered.

“ _Nein._ You are headstrong and stubborn. I can work with those traits, but don’t confuse them with discipline.”

“What do you mean ‘work with’?” America dropped the papers onto his narrow bed and turned to place his hands on his hips. 

“You should have heard from your commander that the Baron von Steuben has arrived as a volunteer to train your army. He’s here to make a proper army out of your men. I don’t know how faulty your education is, but you must have heard of my army. It’s quite awesome if I do say so myself.” America stared at him, a little taken aback. Prussia examined America, his face betraying little of his thoughts. “Are you sure you’re England’s get? You don’t look anything like him.”

“Everyone is fond of telling me that.” America said, sighing. “Maybe it’s because Europe is my family. Mr. Paine said so in his book.”

Prussia chuckled. “Then you’ll have to make something of yourself. No little brother of mine is going to be a slouch. In fact, you look like him.” Prussia stood. “He’s about as tall as you. Maybe I’ll introduce you when I take you to France.”

“To France? I’ve not planned on going anywhere.” He’d barely gotten his head wrapped around the fact that Prussia was here to help him, now he was going to be taking him across the sea?

“You are if you want to seal that treaty. We’ll stay here for a few weeks, probably sail in early February. France may be making noise, but he’s going to sign it. He needs you there to make it look good as far as England is concerned. It’s the game they’ve been playing for centuries.”

America sat down on the edge of his cot. The news bothered him. He’d been honest when France asked, he didn’t know how he felt to agreeing to France’s assistance when all he wanted to do was get revenge. Maybe if Prussia kept talking he would illuminate the situation more.

“What exactly are you here to help me with?”

“Well, for starters, I’m going to turn you into a proper soldier. Or at least as much as I can do in a few weeks time. You’re going to learn some discipline.”

***

_Early February 1778_

“Get up. That couldn’t have hurt that badly.” Prussia said, his voice bored. America tried to pick himself up out of the freezing mud. His uniform was soaked and it chilled him to the bone. Prussia had ousted him before dawn for the past few weeks, hauling him out to do drills. Today he had chosen close quarters fighting.

“It hurt.” America managed to get into a sitting position. He reached up to touch his nose, it was bleeding profusely. “Do you get some sort of sick pleasure from hitting me?”

“Do you get some sort of pleasure from letting me? You aren’t paying attention. If your mind had been here I wouldn’t have been successful in knocking you on your backside. Now get up!” Prussia reached down and dragged him to his feet by the back of his uniform coat. “Again, _dummkopf._ ”

“I am _not_ a fool.” America muttered, taking the stance he’d learned.

“Then prove it to me.” Prussia said, taking the initiative on the attack. America blocked him at first, but then he caught a glancing blow and Prussia caught him behind the ear. He went down again. “Where is your head at, Colony?”

“My name is the United States of America.” 

“That may be what you’re calling yourself, but you’re going to have to earn it. Now, soldier, tell me what has you so distracted. That’s an order.”

“Can we go somewhere warmer?” America said, feeling the wet as he dragged himself to his feet. 

“We’re staying here until you learn to dodge. You told me England taught you how to fight.”

“Well, it’s become apparent that wasn’t true! He’s a liar.” America bit out the words. Hesse had tortured him over the lack of skill he had, now Prussia rubbed his face in it. England hadn’t taught him much of anything, at least nothing he could defend himself with. He’d become painfully aware of how little he knew.

“Is that what’s got you bothered? You’ve realized the nation you’ve been worshipping since you were small is flawed? Grow up.”

“I wasn’t thinking about him until you brought him up!”

“America, we both know you think about him all of the time.”

“Shut up!”

“Make me!” America went for him, his body moving more automatically than it ever had. Prussia blocked a blow. Before America had known what happened, he was face down in the dirt again, Prussia kneeling on his back. “That was better, but you can’t get angry no matter what your enemy says. You get to rub it in his face after he’s down, don’t bother with it before. Taunt only to draw him out. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Let’s take a break. You’re a mess.” He got off America’s back and they walked back towards the camp. “You’re going to wash your uniform yourself. Your army relies far too much on camp followers to keep it clean and fed. Women can be useful, but you can’t always expect they’ll be on the battlefield.”

Lesson after lesson. After washing up and changing, America sat across from Prussia in the hut and tried to scrape the mud out of his coat. “You need to stop being so bothered by how much you don’t know. This is your first real war.” Prussia said, putting together some bread and cheese at the writing table. America’s stomach growled but he knew better than to ask right now.

“It’s my second.”

“Do you know how many I’ve waged?”

“I’d wager more than I have?” America said, sarcasm in the question.

Prussia laughed. “Good bet. I’ve lost count. I’ve been fighting since we were still using broadswords and the long bow hadn’t been invented yet. The first guns didn’t arrive back home until I was already a few centuries old. You’re spoiled.”

“Spoiled. Sheltered. Do you have any other descriptions you would like to lay on me today?”

“Crazy. But that one’s a compliment.” Prussia took a deep draw from his cup. “You’re completely insane, but it makes me like you. You’re improving and that’s good.”

“I suppose I should accept the compliment with grace even if it is suspicious.” He threw a smile in Prussia’s direction and the other nation grinned. Despite the fact that he hated him some days, America couldn’t help but respect him. He also treated America like an equal, not a subordinate, someone worthy of being tutored. 

“You need some work on diplomacy, but we can take care of that on the ship.”

“Why can’t I just be myself?”

“I’m going back to my previous description of you. Sheltered. I’ll stick with that one instead of stupid. Don’t make me change my mind.” Prussia adjusted his seat and reached for more food. “We’ll be leaving tomorrow for Boston. You’ll get to meet the Baron and then we’ll be preparing for departure. You’re going to make a list for me of what you think you need and I’ll approve it before you pack.”

America nodded and went back to trying to scrub the spots out of his uniform. Prussia stood up and headed for the door. “Where are you going?”

“That better be clean when I get back.” Prussia said in answer before striding through the door. America went back to cleaning. Prussia would tell him soon enough, or reveal the lesson, he always did.

***

The question had been burning in America’s mind for a little over a week. However, amongst the trainings and other work Prussia had put him to, there was never a moment to ask. Now, on the road to Boston, they only had riding to focus on. America glanced over at Prussia as they rode side by side. “How much longer do you think it will last? The war, I mean.”

Prussia tilted his head to look at him. “It’s impossible to know how long a war will last. Some are a few days, others can last generations. What I can tell you is this, England will not get tired of this war and quit. You are going to have to make him see he’s lost.”

“Does he do that? Grow tired of wars?”

“Well, you can run out of money, supplies, men, get outmaneuvered to the point where you have to surrender and be forced into a treaty. Sometimes, though, wars are fought for passion. You’ve started one of those. They’re hard to quit.” Prussia looked down at his reins.

“Have you fought a war like that?”

“Ha! I try to engage in one every few decades. They are edifying.” Prussia snickered, his face gaining the far away look of a memory.

“Who do you fight with?”

“Why are you suddenly so curious about gossip regarding lovers?” Prussia gave him a sideways glance and America flushed. Prussia began to laugh. “You would get along fine with Germany. He blushes at the drop of a hat, too. So innocent. Maybe France can break you of that.”

“About France... were he and England ever...?”

Prussia gave him a look like he couldn’t be serious. “Why do you think they get under each other’s skin so easily? Proximity and passion are terrible ideas. Don’t mess around with that one north of you or any of Spain’s colonies.”

“I wasn’t exactly planning on it.” America looked down at his horse’s mane, brushing his fingers through the long brown hairs. He’d suspected that about England and France, but the confirmation didn’t sit well. 

“That’s because you want your big brother.” 

America looked up at him, brow furrowed. “That’s none of your business.”

Prussia shrugged. “Fine, but I’m just trying to tell you that France won’t be bothered that you’re England’s brat. You intend to thank him for recognizing you right?”

“I don’t understand how his history of bedding England has anything to do with him recognizing my independence.” The words felt strange on his tongue, the verbal acknowledgement heightening the feeling in his stomach.

“I’m just informing you that you won’t be the first to have had the pleasure and if you want to be a nation you might have to put aside some of your romantic scruples.”

“I’m not interested in courting.”

“Courtship has nothing to do with it. Do you think the soldier and the whore bed each other for love?”

America pulled up his horse. “I don’t understand what you’re trying to teach me.” Prussia pulled up his own horse and pulled the beast’s head around so that they were facing each other in the road. America was surprised by the look of brotherly concern on Prussia’s face. “You’re trying to protect me?”

“Prepare you. England protected you, and you’re separated from most of the world. When you get across the Atlantic you are entering a world very different from here. It has very old histories and traditions, you’re not a part of any of that.” Prussia rode closer, reaching out to put his hand on America’s shoulder. He squeezed. “Decide what your principles regarding the others will be, but be ready to bend if you have to. France may ask things of you.”

“Like what?”

“You know what.” _I don’t know if he can forgive you._ Canada’s words flew into the forefront of America’s mind. 

“No.” America kicked his horse forward, not wanting to discuss it. Prussia caught up with him , but didn’t push the issue. Instead, he changed the subject to supply lines and what he needed to gather while he was in Europe. Funds, munitions, support.

They joined the entertainments in Boston. The Baron von Steuben was being seen to with pomp and circumstance. America found himself tired and too distracted to rub shoulders with the politicians. He snuck out after dinner and made his way into nearby farmland. It was changed from when he’d last been there. England’s ships had been bombarding the city then, the noise of Bunker Hill rose in his mind. The war had been new and he’d been scared out of his wits. Things were certainly starting to change now. He hadn’t failed. He was about to be formally recognized as an independent nation.

When he realized where he’d gone, he hesitated. It was an imposition. He dismounted his horse, standing near the front gate, but not quite willing to open it. The door opened, throwing light out into the winter night. A boy, eleven years old, came down the front path towards where America stood. The boy peered into his face before recognition spread across it. He smiled. “America? Why are you standing out here in the snow? Mama and Papa would want to see you.”

“Mr. Adams is here, Johnnie?”

John Quincy nodded, “He’s leaving for France soon. He’s taking me with him.”

“Me too.” 

“You can help me with my French on the ship. Come inside, we have some leftovers from supper.” America followed him around the back of the house and John Quincy helped him settle the horse in the stables. Together they went to the well to bring some fresh water into the house. As soon as America walked in he felt like he shouldn’t be there. There was a tension in the house. Despite that, Mrs. Adams was kind and welcomed him. America liked feeling like part of a family. They’d been one once - him, England, Canada, and even France from time to time. 

The evening began to grow late and Mrs. Adams left to make up a place for America to spend the night. He was left alone with Mr. Adams whose concern about the whole affair in France was evident, especially when he found out that America had been summoned.

“Don’t let them turn your head or adopt too many of their ways. Dr. Franklin needs a push, perhaps your presence will help.”

“I’ve known France since I was small.” America said, watching the man’s face. Adams took a sip of the warm cider and America took a drink of his own. It was a welcome change from all of the fine wines he’d been drinking for the past few days of Prussian volunteers and French officers in Boston.

“But we can be different in our own homes.”

“You haven’t been to Europe either, have you Mr. Adams?”

“It will be a new experience for us both. I can only hope that it will bring you closer to independence.”

“I don’t want to be away for too long.”

“I will endeavor to not have either of us away for too long.”

“Thank you, Mr. Adams. you don’t know what this means to me.” America smiled at him even as the man waved off the compliment. Mrs. Adams arrived sometime later encouraging everyone to bed.

“America, could I have a word with you before you go to bed.” Mrs. Adams said when he stood up. 

“Of course, ma’am.” He sat back down in the chair and watched the firelight flicker over her face. She was what he would want if he had a mother. They were all fighting for his independence. “What can I help you with Mrs. Adams?”

“I understand the importance of this French Alliance, but is sending my husband necessary?”

“Congress asked him. It’s a great honor.” She nodded, sadness in her eyes. “I will never forget what your family has done for me, Mrs. Adams.” He reached out and took her hand. She squeezed it.

She gave him a sad smile. “Good night, America.” She got up in a rustle of skirts and went out of the room. America continued to sit in the chair and watch the fire burn low. He couldn’t bear to sleep. So much had been sacrificed for him already and all for his independence. What could he do?

America tried to rest, but found that he couldn’t sleep. He left a note on his pillow and quietly got his horse out of the stables. The ride back to Boston was cold, but it helped him think. It was nearing dawn when he arrived. He went straight to Prussia’s room at the direction of a servant and banged on the door.

Prussia opened the door bleary-eyed in his shirt. “England didn’t teach you much, but I’m sure he taught you to not wake people up when they were drinking the night before.”

“I need you to teach me.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to do.”

“I need to learn to fit in. I don’t want them to think I’m a child.” Prussia sighed and opened the door farther. America stepped through and the door clicked shut behind him. Prussia walked towards the fireplace, rubbing at his temples. He sat down in the single chair. “What happened to all that conviction about being yourself and being different?”

“My people are making sacrifices. I can do the same. I want to make a good impression. If I can get more allies than just France then maybe things will come to pass sooner rather than later.”

Prussia looked at him for a moment before walking past him to sit by the fire. “I can teach you, but I warn you I have my own crop of enemies who don’t care for who I am. England didn’t bother to teach you diplomacy either?”

America shook his head. “He didn’t expect me to ever need it, he always dealt with things.”

“Fine. We can work on the basics as we travel. There are some of my brothers who would certainly do you better, but they’d likely make you soft. With my guidance you’ll be awesome.” Prussia laughed. “Now get out of here so I can dress. I will meet you in the dining room in a half hour.

***

_At sea..._

Prussia was as harsh a task master in etiquette as he was in regards to military principles. His king was famous for his prowess on the battlefield and the palace. America had to admit he enjoyed hearing the stories Prussia told about Frederick the Great. 

“If only England had loosened his purse string a little further in the Seven Years War. That victory would have been glorious.” Prussia said, swallowing back some wine. They were in the captain’s quarters, sitting at a table that shifted a little at the movement of the waves. The winter seas were rough.

“Was that why you’d written to him? To ask for more money?”

“Were you under the impression I actually wanted to sleep with him? Hell no, especially since he was pretty cozy with Hanover at the time.” That was not the turn America had been looking for in the conversation, but it was still a distraction from how seasick he’d felt. The off feeling had started as soon as he couldn’t see his own shores anymore and he’d not been able to shake it. 

“What do you want me to say? That I have an infatuation with him?”

Prussia looked at him over the rim of his wine glass. “Well, do you?”

“You scolded me not two days ago for looking for gossip and now you want some? Hypocrite.”

Prussia laughed. “Ah, but you see the rumor everyone has been whispering about is that England was tupping his colony and you got tired of being his toy.”

America choked on his wine and it took a full minute of coughing before he could regain his breath. “Why would anyone get that idea?”

“You don’t know your big brother very well. So the rumor that you’d rather be in his bed is the true one?”

America fought the blush and failed. “Who’s saying that?”

“Hesse. He was telling such sad tales about you my curiosity couldn’t be satisfied until I saw the malcontented America myself.”

America frowned. “What is your assessment of the rumor then?”

“You need to stop acting so jealous that we know England better--”

“You don’t know him better.”

“That may be true, but you need to remember you have to lay these rumors to rest. Do you want to be the upstart colony pining after England or do you want to be the colony that fought for its liberty against one of the most powerful nations in the world?”

“I _am_ the latter.”

“Then make sure you prove it with everything you do. When we land in France everything you say and everything you do will need to prove that. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“You can love the bastard all you want, but don’t let the rest know.” America nodded. “Get some sleep, you will get your first glimpse of Europe tomorrow.” He stood up and headed for the door. America watched him go, the question sitting on the tip of his tongue.

“Prussia, if I may ask, who is it that you fight for love?” 

Prussia paused, the door in his hands. “It doesn’t really matter since she loves someone else.” 

He didn’t look back at America as he left. America could sense that he’d struck a nerve, and had been lucky to get an answer at all. He leaned back in his seat and pulled a little more bread and cheese toward him. _She._ Were there many of those? Tomorrow he would see dry land again and meet them perhaps.

It was a whole new world there for him. He was ready to put what Prussia had taught him to the test. He would meet those that he’d only read about in books , or heard tales at England’s side. Now he’d be able to learn for himself.

***

_February 1778_

_Philadelphia_

England felt heady, sluggish and warm. The world was made of little more than the shifting of lights and sounds. Perhaps staying drunk would be the right way to spend the rest of this century. Things still hurt, but they were dull. Numbed.

It had all begun with the normal bit of indulgence after supper. Everything had been fine and dandy, even delightful. Then the knock on the front door had been a blond Canadian decked in winter wear and snowflakes. Not America, but with news about him. He thought it could wait.

“No, England... I don’t know how to say this.”

“Save it for later, Canada, come drink with me.”

A look of indecision. A rush of words. “America isn’t on the continent anymore.”

Strange feeling. An uncomfortable truth sliding to the forefront. “Where has he gone?”

“He’s gone to him.”

Blankets. Hush. Quiet.

Before the news it had been all surging excitement. Port. Madeira. Claret. Some brew that he didn’t know the name of. The pleasant warmth deep in belly that could only be brought on by happiness and love. And booze.

Desperation for affection. The begging of stories and tidbits. Teasing familiarity. Canada was a good boy. He was going to keep him close. 

One scotch, two scotch, three scotch, four. Or was it five?

Ah yes, _plans_. Plans and meetings. Meetings and argument. Long overdue. Necessary. America would come back.

Sweeping skirts and disappearing plates cleared of crumbs and cake. Tea. A flask tipping Scotland’s whiskey into the porcelain cup.

One more glass of port. It couldn’t hurt. Did that make six? 

“England, did you hear me? He’s gone to see France.” A hitch in the boy’s voice. 

_Gone._ It was all gone.

Seven. Eight.

Gone like _him_. Wheat fields and ocean blue soul. Laughter. Once pleasant, now defiant. Angry. Hateful.

He couldn’t believe it. Gone to Paris. Dingy. Fiend he was, that France.

Heady, sluggish, pulling him away from the pain. Numb.

Nine. _Damn, another empty bottle._

It was too hot.

_Traitor! Betrayer! Hateful! Ungrateful!_ More words stumbled from his mind in old languages he’d half forgotten. 

Anger. 

_No._  

Rage. Glass shattered. His throat was raw. Voices screeching, nails scratching, fist breaking. Splinters. Pain.

Disbelief. Sorrow. 

Seclusion. _I’m alone. All alone._

Protest. Rejection.

Air. Second star to the right. 

Yelling.

Pain.

Screaming.

Warm. Sticky. Delusion. 

Panic.

White. Red. Black.

***

“He fell down the stairs. He had too much too drink and he got some bad news. He tried to go up to his study and missed a step.” Canada said. England felt like he was hearing him from underwater. Where was he? 

“Well, it seems to be a concussion, a bruising of his skull. I would watch him for a couple of days and I will come check on him. There is not much else we can do at the moment. Call on me if something changes. Williams, was it? You are Lord Kirkland’s...?”

“Younger brother, yes. Thank you, Doctor.”

“Have a good evening, lad. Men all have their demons to fight, powerful men more than others.”

“ _Oui. Au Revoir. Bonne nuit._ ” 

_No, not him. Get out of here, France. You can’t have him._

The darkness gathered around him with welcoming arms. He let himself fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Next chapter, France decides to set his plan in motion for twisting the knife in England's back and England finds out about the Treaty of Amity and Commerce.
> 
> If you've been enjoying our story please drop us a comment or a kudo! Stay tuned for more!


	15. Gone, gone, gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> America appears on France's doorstep and meets other possible allies. England discovers the agreement that has been made.

_February 1778_

_Paris, France_

“Wait, you’re leaving?” America said, standing in the doorway to Prussia’s room. They’d arrived several days ago and America still couldn’t feel settled. He felt off in a way he couldn’t describe and nothing seemed to be able to distract him.

“I got you here and I have things to do. I am going to see my little brother before one of my brothers makes him soft.” Prussia replied, carefully folding his clothes into the traveling case. America walked into the room a little stiffly. The French tailor had made him a set of new clothes so he could appear more fashionable. They felt extravagant and stuffy, far more expensive than any clothes America had ever owned in his life. It had been days of walking from grand room to grand room in the grandest house he’d ever seen. France showed no interest in summoning him. “I honestly don’t know what France is up to.” Prussia said, breaking into America’s thoughts. America dropped down onto the bed behind the stack of clothes waiting to be folded.

“Why is he making me wait?”

“Because he can.” Prussia shoved him off one of the shirts and added it to the case.

“He can’t treat me like a beggar.”

“You are a beggar. You need him and you know it.” Prussia gave him a pointed look. “You’ve seen the treaty his King has signed. You have an alliance now, but don’t forget that it doesn’t go into effect until England declares war on him.”

“Then why won’t he see me? Or why doesn’t he say something to England?” Prussia sighed loudly as though he were speaking with someone being frustratingly dense. He wanted America to figure it out himself. “He wants leverage.”

Prussia smiled, nodding. “He’s likely going to greet you in a way that will certainly make it back to England. You just have to not screw it up in the meantime.” Prussia closed the case and called for a servant to come collect it. He gave America a quick pat on the shoulder and departed without another word.

***

America spent the next several days feeling like the walls were closing in. Adams was in meetings with Dr. Franklin and Arthur Lee being appraised of the diplomatic situation. That left him mainly on his own to attend the parties and attend to the constant flow of people coming through the house. He was almost afraid to touch anything. The house seemed palatial. If this was a house then what did the Palace at Versailles even look like? He considered for a moment marching over there and demanding France see him. Instead, he decided to write, demanding to be seen.

A response came back the next morning inviting him to a luncheon. America prepared as best as he could, even accepting a handful of flags to sell for the cause. Dr. Franklin shook his hand and said, “Keep your wits, America, France is a place where one can be lost.” America stepped into the coach trying to keep his nerves in check.

Versailles was more than he could have imagined. He couldn’t help but stare at room after room as he was led through the court by a footman. The people were as colorful and ornate as the furnishings. Everything in the place spoke of unspeakable wealth. In his wildest imaginings he hadn’t pictured France like this. Even in his new clothes, America felt plain.

The servant opened a door, waiting. “You will find _Monsieur_ Bonnefoy with his guests.” _Guests?_ America thanked him and stepped inside, preparing himself for whatever France had planned.

“Ah, the United States of America has arrived!” America turned to see France rising from a tea table. He was more resplendent than America had ever seen him. His silk coat and breeches were a powder blue. He’d accompanied the ensemble with a waistcoat that looked spun from pure gold and had fine silver embroidery of the _Fleur de lis._ His hose were so white they were practically luminescent. America felt positively sober in his dark blue coat, no matter how fine it was. France strode across the room and pulled him close, planting a kiss on each cheek.

“France, I wanted to thank you--”

“There will be time for thanks later. I have some people for you to meet, although I suppose you may know them by reputation or maybe even memory.” He hooked an arm through America’s and brought him forward. France smelled of cologne and America had the sudden realization that he’d never seen any nation on his own shores. Well, other than Canada, but he barely counted. What would England look like at home? What were his palaces like? London? He didn’t have too much time to consider the thought, as the others around the table stood. “America, may I present Spain and the Netherlands. He is going by the Dutch Republic these days, but it is such a mouthful.” America saw Spain’s nose wrinkle a little at the name. He knew he’d read something about their relationship in England’s history books, but he couldn’t quite recall the incident.

“Are you going to introduce me, you bastard?” France wheeled them about and America came face to face with a skinny nation who looked around his age. He was settled on a sitting couch, frowning.

“Ah yes, this is Romano or South Italy. Don’t let his size fool you, he is very old. Not as old as me though, I knew his Grandpa. You would have learned that his name was Rome.”

“I knew him too.” Romano said, crossing his arms. 

“You mean like Julius Caesar? That Rome?” America asked, the name floating to the forefront of his mind, the name pressed in bold black letters into the page. France looked amused. Romano looked annoyed.

“Never knew him.”

Spain cleared his throat, interrupting any other questions America thought up. “Don’t get any ideas about independence, Romano. You’re not moving out of my house.” The Italian’s attention turned from America and he answered Spain with a string of angry Italian curses that ended with Romano storming out the door. France shook his head and planted America into a chair at the table, pouring him a glass of wine.

“Is he all right?” America asked.

France waved a hand. “He’s been in a foul mood for two centuries at least. You know, now that I think of it, I don’t know if I’ve ever seen him smile.”

“Ever since he had to live under this one’s roof.” Netherlands said, gesturing at Spain. Something in Spain’s otherwise friendly face darkened. 

“Just because Romano doesn’t smile for either of you doesn’t mean anything.”

“Ah, so he does smile for you?” asked France, a conspiratorial tone entering his voice. Spain swiped a finger across his lips, a signal he wasn’t telling. They both laughed. Netherlands just shook his head. 

America focused on some of the food in front of him, wanting to learn more. He’d expected them to be more serious. These were, after all, nations that England had fought before. America knew that Spain controlled the lands to the south and west of him. He used to run away from the Netherlands when he was small. America looked around, now he was their equal. He lifted his chin a little. It was a good feeling. Spain made a move to wrap an arm around Netherlands neck, but the other leaned away and gave him a glare that reminded America just why he used to run away from him.

“It’s too bad Prussia had to go running off to his cute little brother. You two are tedious with your bad blood.” France said, breaking the tension. He took a long draw from his wine glass.

“Would that not have been awkward if Austria had accepted your invitation as well?” Spain said.

“I’m afraid he is quite cross with me over the Franco-Austrian Alliance. He should know that I have no interest in dealing with Prussia right now over one of the German thrones. Bavaria has Saxony and Prussia. I hardly need to get involved, they’ll settle things like they always do.”

“Breaking an alliance does tend to create awkwardness.” said Netherlands.

France chuckled and leaned over towards America. “Don’t worry, I have no intention of breaking our alliance. In fact, by breaking my alliance with him I was able to build my navy up to take on our dear England.”

“Prussia didn’t mention he was at war with Austria.” America said.

“Prussia goes to war with him with such regularity he probably doesn’t think anything of it.” Spain said.

“They aren’t technically at war, yet.” said Netherlands.

“‘Yet’ being the operative term. I would wager they are fighting before the year is out.” France added, leaning back in his chair. “Although I suppose we should change the subject, I doubt America is much interested in our tawdry gossip.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know much about it.” America admitted. The others watched him. “I have been rather occupied with my fight for independence.”

“We all heard of your impressive victory at Saratoga. Did you get to see England’s face when he was defeated?” Spain’s smile made America shift in his seat. The sheer interest in England’s reaction to defeat made America shift in his seat.

“He was in Philadelphia at the time.” Despite that truth, he could imagine England’s face well enough. He could see the mixture of rage and disbelief, no doubt soothed by Canada when he’d returned. The corner of America’s mouth turned down. “My brother, Canada, was present. He was wounded, but he is recovered now.” America’s eyes slid to France as he mentioned Canada and he thought he saw a flicker of something before it was replaced by haughty nonchalance.

“Shame you didn’t see it. I would have paid quite a bit of coin to see it myself. _Inglaterra_ is always so full of himself.” Spain said. 

“His bravado is not exactly empty.” said Netherlands. America felt his stomach drop looking at the other’s expression. He wasn’t convinced that America was capable of winning yet. 

France huffed. “England has always had delusions of grandeur, even when he was a little scrawny thing hiding in the woods when Denmark and Norway came to relieve him of his gold. He’s not invincible.” France reached out and lay his hand on America’s shoulder, directing the last sentence directly at him. He didn’t release him, France’s hand felt like a weight.

“I remember when they used to try that on you, too.”

“All of us, really.”

“At least you never made an attempt on Denmark’s virtue.” France said, laughing at the other’s expressions.

“ _Dios mio,_ how did I never hear about this?”

“It had to have been in the 1100s. Some days I miss the fashion, just a long brocade tunic and hose. Although Denmark had quite a bit of sea stained leather...” France launched off into the rest of the story.

The rest of the meeting seemed to pass in a blur. Food arrived and the others, mainly Spain and France, gossiped about events that happened before America’s existence had started tenuously on the coast at Jamestown. They jumped from past to present as though centuries did not exist between the moments. Apparently, a country named Russia had become enamored with France’s culture much to everyone’s amusement. Spain talked of some of his own colonies. At some point Netherlands excused himself and the small party moved to velvet sitting couches and more wine. Evening descended and America sat in companionable silence with them. 

France got up to call for a servant to bring dinner. America tried to think of something to say to Spain, wondering what Spain would even want to hear. He opened his mouth to start several times, but Prussia’s voice barked at him in his head to think twice. Spain probably didn’t want to hear about how some of the people in Georgia were interested in exploring Florida.

“You are an intriguing little upstart.” Spain said, breaking the silence. “I hope I won’t come to regret joining France.” Spain tipped back the rest of his wine and then got up. He gathered up his coat and began to walk towards the door.

“Where are you going?” France asked, returning. He was wrapping his cravat around one hand, the neck of his shirt open. Spain smiled at him.

“I have to oust a certain Italian out of a circle of women and then I plan on retiring. We will speak more of this once the eyebrow bastard declares war on you.”

“Believe me, I look forward to it.” France leaned in close and shared a kiss with Spain. America couldn’t help but stare. Neither seemed to think anything of it, or that America was watching them. When they parted, France caught America’s eye. The glance was appraising. He didn’t say a word until the door had closed behind Spain. “Don’t gape like a fish. Surely you know of such... fondnesses by now.”

France strolled back over to the table and picked up the wine bottle, pouring the burgundy into a glass. He settled onto the other end of the couch. “I must admit, not first hand.” America replied, interested in laying that rumor to rest before France could bring it up. France laughed.

“We could fix that, you know.” France reached over and let his fingers trail up the sleeve of America’s coat.

America leaned away. “Very funny.”

“What makes you think I’m jesting?”

“I just have a feeling.” 

“I could make you feel a great many things.” Silence stretched between them and the silver clock on the mantle ticked away the seconds. America felt the flush come over him and stood up to stand closer to the fire. At least then the heat could be used as an excuse. He heard a thump behind him and when he turned around France had kicked off his shoes and stretched one stockinged foot along the cushions. “Are you not curious?”

“About?”

France smiled at him. “Fondnesses.”

America watched him, trying not to betray anything on his face. “What do you want me to say?”

France tilted his wrist slightly, causing the wine to swirl in his glass. “When last we met I told you that you needed to prove yourself before I would recognize you. You have been doing far better and shown England what you are capable of.” France paused and took another drink of wine, watching America over the rim of his glass. “However, there is something I have not been able to ascertain. Do you still love him, _Amerique?_ ”

The sheer bluntness of the question set off a swirl of emotion in America’s chest. This was not the direction of conversation he’d suspected at all. “Why does it matter? You said earlier this evening that you would have gone to war with your friend, only it was inconvenient for you.”

“That is business, America. And make no mistake, you are business here.”

“Was England _business_ when you were younger?”

France raised an eyebrow. “Ah, so I see Prussia told you. We _were_ lovers once, a long time ago. If you were not so young and England had not sheltered you so fiercely you would know such relations are common. I have not been in his bed since you and Canada were very small and now I would rather stab him in the heart than in more pleasant ways.”

“Then this is about revenge.” America said, catching the twitch in France’s face. “I thought about it on the voyage, about whether I cared. It is, as you say, business. I want my independence more than anything else.” France seemed a total stranger here in this place, amongst his finery. He was a far cry from the nation America remembered that would show up in furs and gather Canada into his arms. 

France raised his glass. “If that is true. _Liberte vivante.”_ America raised his own and they drank. Silence fell again, only broken by the pop and crackle of the fire. “You will, of course, be staying here tonight.” America had no chance to reply to the audacious statement due to the arrival of the meal. It wasn’t until France was waving him over to the table that he realized what France meant to imply.

“You want England to think that we...” He stopped himself, hoping that France would offer up a contradiction. He sat down slowly, watching France’s hands as he reached for different dishes and foods that America couldn’t name.

“It will be a useful ruse and one that everyone will believe.”

“England will be furious.”

“That is the idea. Beyond that, I thought you said it didn’t bother you and it wasn’t about him.”

“It’s not. I just don’t think... isn’t it going a bit far to hurt him like this?”

France took a small sip from a soup spoon. “Regardless, the horse has left the barn. Here you are, alone with me. I could have had you at least once by now. Besides the night is young.” America was sure his face was the color of England’s uniform coat. France chuckled. “Don’t worry, it’s good for your reputation. Let’s eat, you can tell me about England’s military strength, and then I may have some confidences for you.”

The night wore on and America felt tired. He’d given up on his coat and waistcoat, comfortable enough from the wine to lounge in his shirtsleeves. He was leaning on the couch’s arm his legs stretched in front of him and France had taken to lying on a large pillow on the floor. “Has England been with many nations?” 

An amused expression came over France’s face. “That isn’t what you want to ask.”

“What am I asking then?”

“You want to know if I loved him or if he loved me.”

“Do... did you love him?”

“I cannot speak for him, I do not know if he’s ever loved anyone. For myself, perhaps I did once, but it is not love anymore.”

“What is it then?”

“I do not know.” France took a long draw from his wine glass, nearly emptying the thing again. America had lost count of the number of bottles hours ago. “So my assumption was correct then, you think you are in love with him? You can tell me, night is a time for confidences. This is not between the Kingdom of France and the United States of America, this will be between brothers.”

America wished the heat would drain from his cheeks. He picked up his own glass again, draining it. The taste reminded him of drinking with Canada. “I... does it matter?” It was the second time he asked.

France ran a hand through his hair pulling at the silk ribbon. His hair fanned out in a golden halo around his head. “I suppose it doesn’t, because he may not give you a choice.”

“A choice between what?”

“Him and your independence. With me by your side you will have your independence, make no mistake.”

America took a deep breath and looked towards his feet. He rubbed his hands over his breeches while he thought. “Do you think... could I have both?”

France stretched his arms above his head and closed his eyes. America had to admit he really was beautiful. “Whether you can have your independence and him will be between the two of you. A colony and an empire has not happened before.”

“What about an empire and an empire?”

The corner of France’s mouth twitched into a smile. “While I admire your ambition I think you should not get ahead of yourself. I intend to occupy Louisiana for some time still. And you should really see Spain fight before you start eyeing any of his colonies.” He beckoned with his hand. “Come here, America.” 

America hesitated before sliding down onto the floor. France pulled him close, wanting him to lay down beside him. America’s heart thudded against his ribs. The wine muddled his head.

“Relax, I’m not going to hurt you.” France said, his voice quiet. France moved closer, his body feeling impossibly warm. His lips were warmer still as they claimed America’s. He’d never really kissed anyone before, although he’d thought about trying it with England more times than he could count. Would he feel like this? No, probably not. France had always been different. France had been right earlier, he was curious. 

As France’s hands drifted over him, America could tell he knew what he was doing. France had touched England like this before, more than once if what everyone implied was true. America stilled. It didn’t feel right to be thinking about England while kissing someone else. Especially not thinking about England kissing the same person. He turned his face.

“I don’t want to do this.” he said.

France leaned up, giving him distance. He raised an eyebrow. “We’re allies now, no one would bat an eye. Everyone will think it’s happened anyway.”

“I know, but I... don’t want to.”

France sighed, leaning away and flopping back down beside him. There was space between their bodies now. “You don’t know what you are missing, my boy.”

America rolled onto his side so he could watch France. A question rolled to the front of his mind. “Do you want to bed me for me or as part of your revenge?”

“So cynical. You are a pretty thing, I would have enjoyed you. You would have enjoyed it too, and there is some time to go in this war, yet. Perhaps you will change your mind.”

“That’s not an answer.” 

France went very still and he was silent for nearly a minute. “My king admires your sense of liberty and would like to alleviate the humiliation that the United Kingdom served us in the Seven Years War. Your spirit moves mine.”

Another dodge. “That’s not really what I’m asking. Did you know that England put Canada in his colors? He never did that for me...”

“I do know.” France’s posture changed from a romantic figure to someone who looked like someone had stabbed him in the chest. His voice was hard when he spoke again, “You did not wear England’s colors and Canada did not wear mine. What is your point?”

“Am I really the one you want?” France opened his eyes then and sat up, his back to America.

“The answer to that has nothing to do with the matter at hand.” The seconds ticked by filling the silence. The room seemed to grow cold. “I think you should retire for the evening.”

“But...”

“ _Bonne nuit, Amerique._ ” 

The dismissal couldn’t be anymore apparent. America stood up and gathered up his coat. “Good night, France.”

***

He spent a few more days in France’s company, discussing the role France would take. His navy meant the most to America, American privateers could only do so much. He didn’t reach for America again and America did not pry.

Soon, he was getting back onto one of the French ships, a few French diplomats on board with him. France was certain that England would declare war on him before America set foot back home.

America had to begrudgingly admit that France knew England well.

***

_March 1778_

_Philadelphia_

He should have been excited. He had, after all, been awoken by a rush of elation. Similar to the one when his ships had hit the shores of the new world. Something had been discovered, and he was certain that it was James Cook’s doing. The man had become Commander of the HM Bark Endeavor in 1766, promising England personally that he would set out across the Pacific and bring more land home for the crown. Which he had, for now, they had discovered the Sandwich Islands and were interacting with the people who occupied the islands. 

The man could be thanked for his efforts with the merchant navy in the seven years war and had been kind to Matthew while mapping out the mouth of the Saint Lawrence River. That kindness to the growing nation, while everything else going to hell was what had caught England's attention. Since then, he had more than once entertained the man at dinner. Now he was in charge of the HM Resolution and had taken it upon himself to find a northwest passage along the coast of the "New World." That was the only thing he could think of, he had been excited to tell Canada what was probably transpiring. 

But then the other news came, turning even tea sour in his mouth.

Running his hands through his hair, he sank into the chair behind the large desk. With a sigh, he kneaded at his temple. 

The missive had been delivered by a soldier, out of breath and wild in the eye. “Lord Kirkland! General Clinton says you are to receive this immediately. A treaty between the French and the rebels is at hand!” 

That had been the only warning before the ink on parchment set him off. The front door slammed against the wall, nearly bouncing close with force. He vaguely remembered picking up objects to hurl across the room, the various tongues of those ruled by his vast empire rolling off his tongue in a garbled mess. Canada had known better than to ask after the broken windows of the front parlor, or the shattered glassware spilled across the lawn outside. He had barely registered the servants scattering like frightened mice.

He yelled at Ann Hulton when she came into the house, basket over her arm. He didn’t remember even making it to his study. He blacked out, tumbling to the floor from the emotional overload. When he had come to he found himself laying on the thick rug in front of his fire, staring into logs burnt and cold. He pushed himself up to a sitting position.

Peering out the window he believed that he had been there for hours. Around him, books were strewn across the floor, his desk a disaster, ink staining the carpet. With a swallow the soreness of his throat caught his attention, and then he recognized the distinct aftertaste of bile that one had after emptying their stomach. Had he really heaved last night's supper? Noise wrinkling in disgust he called out hoarsely for a servant. The mess needed to be cleaned up before Canada arrived home.

***

“War! Fucking war! I am going to sink that bastard’s ships! Scatter his bones across the waters! The destruction of the Spanish Armada will look like a walk in the garden compared to what I am going to do to him!” he shouted throwing a glass across the room. Kicking his desk, England whirled around to look at Matthew. Canada had always been quiet, reserved, but at the moment it was infuriating. “How can you not be angry! America and France have joined. They have made it official! They both know you stand with me! And yet they join against me. Us. The bloody bastards! I knew Louis was a controlling, power hungry fool that doesn’t know his place but I did not realize he was this mental!” 

“Of course I am England!” Canada protested, “but what will punching the desk or drinking myself into a stupor do!?” 

Canada shook his head, wringing his hands. ‘He couldn’t believe it at first. The minute he had found out what America had done. That America had gone to France and joined forces, the two of them. America had betrayed him, France had betrayed him. He knew that he should be angrier, that it would be understandable if he reacted more like England. But Matthew was numb, in shock.’ England was sure that must have been what was going through Canada’s mind, it was the only thing that made any sense. 

“You are so unflappable.” England muttered watching as Canada sat in his chair, staring into the fireplace.

“I wouldn’t say that I am aloof.” Canada murmured as he watched the flames curl over and under their logs, unperturbed by the display before them. The younger continued his repose, excavating the haze of his mind the conflict with anger making itself known.  

England watched him in silence for a moment, considering. Which one was making Canada the most upset? Was it Francis or was it Alfred? Canada had never expressed his anger, but he had to have been furious when France had left him to England, right? Even when France had dumped him on the doorstep like some child out of wedlock, embarrassment and anger made for terrible bedfellows. France had left Canada to him only to step up with Canada’s brother in the effort to free America from the very country he had left Canada with! And then there was America, crawling on hand and knee to England's oldest enemy and begging for help when he finally realized that he had bitten off more than he could chew. And America wondered why Canada had been so hesitant to join his revolution at the beginning, who in their right mind would?!

The boy wasn't even paying attention! England watched at the boy inspected the carpet  and then looked at the bookshelves lining the walls. A sharp retort, discipline nipped at the tip of England's tongue. The younger blond stared around the room like a child at a sweet shop. It seemed as if nothing could shake the boy from whatever inner place he’d gone. 

Turning on his heel he huffed angrily through his nose, the color of amber catching his eye. He had a new, full, square decanter sitting next to a pretty new shot-glass on the windowsill. Any man who said that women were man's greatest temptation had never been submerged in the powerful stroke and sensation of just enough whiskey. 

His head began to throb as if his body wanted to remind him what had happened the last time he had drunk himself into a raged stupor. Things had not gone well. 

Drumming his fingers on his desk, England heaved a sigh, the anger draining from him like a hole in a bucket. It was replaced with a sense of exhaustion. Eyeing the paperwork, multiple stacks of it across the desktop, his mind worked sluggishly through all that was happening. A thick envelope, addressed and sealed in wax sat heavily upon his desk. It was to George and Parliament, already agreeing and giving his full consent to go to war. It was time to take France to war. This day had turned out vastly different from what he had planned. 

They had been planning to go over the last set of plans regarding the party. "Mathew... how about we have a quiet night. A book or possibly turning in early. I am not sure I am up for going over the paperwork tonight?" 

He watched as the younger blinked three times before moving to looking at him, an unreadable expression in his violet eyes.

"That sounds perfect. I find myself to be rather tired tonight."

 


	16. Time Out of War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> England decides to host a ball in Philadelphia to try and lift his spirits. Amongst the fine clothes and the masks he finds something that interests him. 
> 
> America needed to see him, but what he learns is a bit more knowledge than he could handle.

_May 1778_

_Philadelphia_

Candles, candles everywhere. The flickering flame of three hundred candles lit the meetinghouse turned dancehall. England took in the general splendor. The servants had done an incredible job at transforming the once dreary structure into something warm and fun. Tables and windows were draped with the colors of his empire. Around the room was the Union of Crowns on makeshift flagpoles, a reminder of the empire they were fighting for. Everything was tied up neatly by the melodies created by many violins. Perfect. 

Supper had been served earlier in the evening and although it was custom for the attendees to remove their masks after supper England had announced that he wished for all those to keep them on for the evening, as it would retain the relaxed state in the face of the tense rebellion. There had been little protest and chatter mixed with laughter as his Loyalists mingled with those who had come over from England in support of the crown.  

Supper had been a feast. The food plentiful and filling, the spirits poured into cups never ending. England found himself laughing more than once as women and men alike crooned over Canada with expressions, and touches of friendship along with those of not so innocent offers. The poor boy had been flustered, and England found himself stepping in once or twice when Canada seemed to be on the edge of becoming overwhelmed.  

One woman, in particular, appeared to be enamored with the Canadian nation. Ann Hulton, a Loyalist woman from the outskirts of Boston. She was here to help the troops in Philadelphia as she went to visit family further north. The woman was a kind soul, and on more than one occasion England had found himself spilling his troubles to her. She reminded him so much of his beloved Queen he couldn't help himself. 

England prompted Canada to ask Miss Hulton to save him dance, and after much prodding the red-faced nation did. The woman was delighted, and England reminded himself to tell Canada that he was more than welcome to have his own guests.  The night only proceeded to get better as they entered the hall.

With joy there was always magic. And with magic, there was always the fae. England brushed his hand through his hair in amusement as smaller hands tugged at his hair. Even through his mask, he could see the little faerie flutter in front of him, delicate features puckered in annoyance at losing the strand she had been pulling at. The fae was always obsessed with the hair of blondes and gingers. It fascinated them. They had always had a soft spot for America and Canada’s hair. The poor boys, but at least Canada had been able to see them. 

The New World had always been ripe with magic, and with the twinkling of so many fairies, the interest of the bone women and their fragile appearing silhouettes peeking in the windows and the Manitou, it proved it once again. Balls were notorious for attracting the folk, and it seems that even here in the war-torn country it was no exception. He had met the fae man one morning on his walk and invited him and a partner to attend the gathering he was holding. It was the polite thing to do, best not to slight one of the fair folk. It wasn’t often that England saw the Manitou, it had only been a handful of times and never for an extended period.

“Arthur is that?” Canada whispered with an awed expression, obvious even beneath his mask.

“Yes.” England nodded and when two sets of inhuman eyes turned their way he bowed at the waist, pleased when out of the corner of his eyes he noticed Canada do the same. “Of course they have not given their names, but ask we call them Erline and Erlina.” he murmured. “And do you remember-”

“Never use human words to apologize, always be polite, never give too much away and never drink the faerie wine.” Canada rattled off, visibly relaxing when the immortal pair turned away from them to walk about the room. “Why are they here?”

“I invited them. It is better to produce an invitation than to have the folk feel slighted and arrive unannounced, such is the way. The folk would have come regardless.” England turned to the colony, a pleased smile crinkling his eyes. 

Masked balls were becoming popular in London, thanks to Count John Heidegger. The negotiator from Sweden had introduced the British court to the concept of the masked ball at the Haymarket Opera House seventy years ago. England at first found himself appalled with such a gathering, despite strict etiquette governing the ball, there was a sort of promiscuity about the whole event. Women of questionable activities and morals were often present at these events. 

Speaking of controversial women, England sighed as he watched Elizabeth Loring enter the room on Howe's arm. He was not surprised that he had brought his mistress to the event, as such England had planned in advance to have the woman's husband sent elsewhere with troops. Whether or not the scandal was accepted or scorned by Mrs. Loring's legal husband was none of England's concern. He just did not want to deal with a scene that evening regardless of the circumstance. 

Irrespective of the woman's affair, she was kind and useful. Peering into the room he took note of the hushed exchanges behind fans that began as the pair entered. If he really wanted to know what was going on, then he would ask the ladies in attendance. Officers’ wives were privy to much more than their husbands realized. His Queens had taught him that much.

It was at that thought that England felt a pang of homesickness. He had been penning letters back and forth to Charlotte, but he found himself missing her company. As well as that of George and the children. Despite being always surrounded by people in war, it could often be a lonely state of being.

"England is something troubling you?" Canada's soft voice broke his thoughts. The boy laid a hand on his arm, and England turned his full attention to him. The minute that the pair had agreed on the soiree England had sent word to his personal seamstress back in London, including his and Mathew’s measurements. He requested that alongside a new uniform for the growing boy that a new formal suit to be sewn and dyed for each of them. Ms. Rachel had done him justice once more. 

Canada was fitted in a waistcoat, breeches, and vest, an indigo several shades darker than the boy's eyes, making them pop.  He had requested that both suits be made in the same manner and dyed the same color, but it seemed Anne had gotten her own opinion involved for England was dressed in a similar fashion although his suit hinged on green. Anne always wanted him in green.  At least his requests for their masks had been heeded. He had asked that both masks be made in style in demand in Italy. It covered the dancers upper half of the face and was simple in structure. Black and the only design being that of his Union of Crowns painted in white. Any more would be too excessive for such a simple ball, it wasn't as if they were back at court.

"No. I am doing splendidly, in fact." England assured Canada before a teasing smile brightened his face. "However, it seems that you are the man of the hour tonight if supper is anything to go by." He watched as the plum colored boy turned red once more.

"England, really?!" Canada protested, and England laughed.

"You even caught the eye of Miss Hulton. Good on you." he chuckled, the sound fading as he took note of Howe and Elizabeth approaching. Canada uttered a small noise of dread. "How about you find Miss Hulton or another attractive individual while I deal with this mess. I'll get you later. Go have fun." 

Squeezing the colonies shoulder, he smiled at the relief on the other’s face as he left. He turned to greet Howe. "William, Mrs. Loring. You two seem to be enjoying yourselves." England smiled taking the woman's hand.

"As close as we can get to a real court gala this far from home Arthur." William chuckled. "Although I say that I miss it now, however, am not sure I will express the same sentiment once I am back home at the court once more." He laughed, and England could only nod, struggling to smother a grin. The song changing caught the island nation's attention, and he turned to face Elizabeth. It was a Minuet.

"Mrs. Loring I do hope you will do me the honor of giving me this dance?"

"Of course Lord Kirkland." The woman smiled, and allowed herself to be led to the floor.

"I am borrowing your partner, William. I will return her, but it shall not be my fault when she seeks after me again." England grinned, and the General snorted, no anger in his face. As England turned to face Elizabeth he saw Canada moving through people, his steps determined. Maybe Matthew had finally found Hulton? Or someone else he knew. He was left no time to dwell on the fact as the violins picked up once more.

***

Canada had not gone to seek out the woman as England had suggested. However, he wished that his ability to be unnoticed would be useful. Right now, he could certainly use it. The question regarding his marital status was becoming all too frequent, the drink offers, the personal questions. What had happened to the etiquette!? Eyes darting about the room he searched for any sort of reason to leave these people.

No. No, that was not possible. It would be stupid and reckless. Feeling an all too familiar tug in his mind, Matthew swallowed a groan. He had felt the tug at supper but had brushed it off. America was cocky, Canada wouldn't argue that, but America wasn't that stupid. No one else would recognize him, but Canada knew when he was around. That meant so did his brother. The twins had always been able to sense one another. Turning towards the door, Canada watched two figures enter. America. And the man with him... no, Francis wasn't that stupid. With mumbled apologies, he pushed through a group of people and began to head for the pair.

This was bad. This was dangerous.

***

America missed Philadelphia. It was about time for him to take it back, he thought. Soon. The spies said the British were leaving. England knew about France and that his navy was on its way. There was only one question that America wasn’t sure about, would England go north or south? But that wasn’t why he’d forged an invitation to this party. It was a chance to see England. Would he be different, now that he knew?

He’d tried his hardest to leave France behind. He had seemed content to wine and dine with the rest of the French diplomats in Boston, simply be too flirty with all of the American women and making America uncomfortable. How did France do that? America was growing sure that France could probably seduce a stone if he had half a mind to do it. He had improved America’s disguise, for which he had to be grateful. As soon as they were through the door, France moved off, affecting his voice to sound more like one of Canada’s people. A Quebecois wasn’t nearly as suspicious.

America watched him for a moment as he disappeared into the crowd. France had been determined to be opaque in his reasoning for accompanying America. No amount of questioning had made him give an inch. He was still playing whatever game it was. America frowned a little. He didn’t notice someone standing beside him until a hand grabbed him by the upper arm and started pulling him to the edges of the crowd. He recognized him instantly, even behind the mask. If Canada had spotted him so fast...

They went back out into the spring night, and Canada shoved him hard into the wall. That surprised him. “What the hell is wrong with you?” Canada hissed.

“Nice to see you too.” America returned, edge in his voice. He straightened his jacket and brushed at his breeches. 

“I haven’t seen him smile in weeks and now that he’s finally calmed down enough to be sociable you... you...” Canada seemed at a loss for words.

“It’s _my_ city. I can go where I want.”

“The whole damn world belongs to you does it?”

“Why don’t you go back inside and ask England that question. He’s pretty sure he owns both of us.”

“He does! How many times have I told you--”

“Not for much longer. You had to have seen who I was with.” America had never seen Canada go rigid the way he did then. It was as America had shot him in the chest. That moment before the wound began to bleed and the man fell to the ground. 

“I heard all about who you’ve been with.” Canada’s face stilled as quickly as a northern storm could freeze a town. He turned to walk away, and America grabbed him by the arm. “Are you going to tell him that we’re here?”

Canada didn’t look at him. He shook his head, no. America let go, and Canada walked back into the party. His reaction bothered him, Canada could have chosen his side! He could have been with him when he traveled to Paris if he hadn’t been so adamant about staying loyal. America decided to forget about him for the night. He wasn’t here to see Canada anyway. 

America looked around at the some of the people getting some air from the bustling party. England was not here. He went back inside, scanning for the one person he would always know regardless of what kind of mask he wore.

***

“Canada did you find Miss Hulton?” England turned, smiling at the younger man. Scanning violet eyes, he frowned when he recognized unease in his gaze. “Is something the matter?”

“Ah, no.” Canada shook his head in protest before offering a small smile. “We do not often have such events in the colonies regularly remember? It's just a bit exhausting.”

“They never do get easier. I suggest you ask servant get you something to drink and steal a moment along the wall. That's the best that one can do in these social events.” England smiled sympathetically patting his shoulder.” Rolling his shoulders in an effort to relieve some tension, he watched the younger head for one of the servants as he suggested. Turning he stepped back with a smile as the English Hornpipe started up.

“England if you are making me attend, which means I have to dance, you also will.” Clinton's voice boomed in his ear. The man had appeared out of nowhere, England hadn’t seen him since supper.

“Oh come now!” England protested quickly, futily as he was shoved into line. With a scowl of annoyance at the general on his side he turned forwards to see what unfortunate soul was across the way.  God himself must find that the evening was a perfect time to annoy him. Bowing at the waist he gave a pleasant smile to Elizabeth Loring who by fate's cruel design had ended up across from him. 

The quick singing of the violins started feet moving, and England felt muscle memory take him through the motions of the country dance. England loved dancing, he always had, one tended to have interests in activities that came naturally to them. 

And despite the fact that England resolved to focus on the dance, it was like a rug pulled from underneath his feet as he caught sight of another across the room. England had come to terms long ago that while he had interactions with women, his few intimate evenings with Hungary had been unquestionably enjoyable, but he had a tendency to lean towards the male gender. So the fact that he found a man in the room pleasing was no surprise, the surprise was just how much the man stole his attention.

***

When America found him, he was a little taken aback. England did look thin. His clothes had been tailored to hide it, but his already slight frame seemed smaller. His face was half-hidden by the mask, but he was unmistakable. How many times had America watched his face as he told a story? How many times had he pictured England’s face in his mind?

America tried to be casual with the way he watched England, no reason to tip him off. He fit in well enough. He had repurposed some of the clothes he’d gotten made in France, some of the lines a little soberer, but the deep blue cloth drawing some eyes. The information he’d obtained about the fashion for the masks had been correct as well. He’d decided to play a local, a Loyalist from Philadelphia. His mask was plainer than the English Lords and the wealthy upper class. It was blue, a few hints of ornamentation with silver paint. A merchant perhaps, someone no one was likely to look at too long. He’d needed to sidestep Judge Shippen on the way here, the man would have surely known him from dinners at Dr. Franklin’s. 

He didn’t mean to catch England’s eye. He’d intended to pretend to be admiring the woman he was dancing with. She was one of his people, and she was beautiful. However, he’d missed and looked directly at England. His heart fluttered in his chest in an uncomfortable way. When was the last time England had looked him in the eye? It felt ages ago when he’d been a prisoner. He’d been fussed over and touched, but not the way America wanted. He knew that he should look away, but the _way_ England was looking at him. Like he couldn’t stop, like he was hungry for a sight of him. America couldn’t bear to tear his gaze away.

***

It was going to leave him with a crick in his neck, he was going to feel it in the morning when he rose for the day.  Every turn and twirl of the dance he found himself staring back at the man. England found himself relieved that his mask partially covered his cheeks for he was confident that they would challenge the red of his favorite roses. The man was looking back at him, watching him. Every time England looked away, and he felt drawn back. 

It took him a moment to realize that the dancing had ended. Tugging at his waistcoat, he looked around as the group trickled away into their own chosen social circles for the evening. He found himself stuck in an internal debate, should he approach the man or should he check on Matthew?

It was war, how likely would he see the man again? Just a dalliance. With that resolution in mind, he pretended to fix his mask, a grounding habit, and headed towards the man. It had been a long time since this amount of nervousness had thudded in his chest. The fact that the man watched him approach made it all that much worse. 

“Good evening, I hope you are enjoying yourself.” The gentle introduction tumbled from his face before he even realized what he was saying. At least he didn’t sound a fool, his court upbringing did have its benefits on occasion.  Pulling his gloves off he tucked them into his pocket.

***

America thought his heart was liable to thud out of his chest it was pounding so hard. When England walked towards him, he knew he should have looked away. He should pretend he didn’t hear him. Perhaps he should just find France and get out of here. England was giving him a funny look. He was taking too long to respond. He felt the blush creep up his neck.

America cleared his throat, trying to decide what effect to give his voice. He decided on the way many of the South Carolinian upper class spoke. It was different enough from his normal speech. “Yes, I don’t think I have ever seen Philadelphia so splendid.”

England was so _close_ to him. 

***

“In regards to the city of Philadelphia, I would have to agree, though the countryside is quite  breathtaking in every season.” He smiled. The young man smiled at that, a motion that drew England’s eyes to his mouth. 

He wanted to ask a more personal question, perhaps seek after the gentleman's own name but that defeated the purpose of a masked ball. Quickly, in an attempt not to get caught, he slid his eyes once more over the man's form. With a swallow, he looked back into the eyes of the masked man. So blue, like the ocean, just like... his eyes... so familiar... maybe. No. He brushed the thought aside. Impossible, improbable. America was a child, a boy. 

“At least it seems that those who remain faithful to our King have good taste,” he said, “the Queen herself seemed to enjoy the idea of a small ball in the colonies, much of the party was decorated to her taste.”

***

_He doesn’t recognize me._ America felt a little thrill at that. The plan had been just to see him, never to talk to him. Certainly never had it in the plan that England was going to look at him like _that_. America’s mouth felt dry, and he licked his lips, smiling a little. “Her Majesty has good taste. Have you met her?”

It was a stupid question, America knew, but he figured it was something a human might ask. He would say anything to keep England’s eyes on him.

England smiled. How long had it been since America had seen that? “Yes… our relations are of a unique nature. I am... a diplomat of sorts. I shall leave it at that. A gentleman never reveals too much of course.” 

He turned to look around the room, watching the dancers turn about the chamber. He seemed almost to be looking past the people, that funny look in his eye he would get before he would talk about faeries and magic. Just as abruptly, he looked back. His face was contemplative, examining, just a hint of something else. “The music has gotten rather loud, and I find that I am becoming rather warm. I am entertaining a walk outside. Would you care to join me?”

“Yes, indeed.” America gestured toward the door, worried that his motion was too fast, but England’s mouth turned up at the edge, and he led the way. America followed close. They walked along the edges of the party, passing between chatting matrons trying to direct daughters towards officers still wearing their red coats and tangles of older men observing the antics of the young. 

America really didn’t see any of it. He was focused on England’s back. That image made his breath catch, he was too used to seeing England’s coat moving farther and farther away from him. He stepped up, bumping into England’s arm as he took over the lead. 

“There is a small garden nearby. It’ll be quiet.” America said, almost forgetting his put on accent on the first word. He winced, hoping England hadn’t noticed.

England arched a brow. “A garden out here? So you are familiar with the area then I take it? I was judging from your accent that you are not from around here.” His eyes narrowed a little, catching up with America to walk right beside him. 

_Damn._ America thought. “Right, I’m from Charlestown, the colony of South Carolina. My cousin married not long before the rebellion, and I traveled here to determine her safety.” It seemed a reasonable enough excuse. 

A few other people were roaming about. Talking about their own business or some young men seeking dalliances with young women. Dalliances. _Fondnesses._ Without thinking, America put his hand in the middle of England’s back, directing him towards the small garden path. 

He couldn’t get the look England had given him out of his mind. He knew England wasn’t looking at _him_ , but he _might_. America shook his head slightly. It might have meant nothing, England inviting him to walk.

***

“That is rather noble of you.” England commented. He hoped that his voice hadn’t caught, betraying his surprise. England hadn’t expected the stranger to be so familiar, familiar enough to touch him. Not trusting himself to speak just yet after his surprise, he utilized the garden's beauty to gather himself. Finally being May, the greenery of the colony had returned full force after such a devastating winter. It was a relief and with a sliver of hope, one he would never voice, prayed that maybe it was a sign.  Not of new birth as some poets described spring, but rather that the ugly war was almost over with. That everything was going to return to the way it was supposed to be.

“I am surprised that your wife would be so willing to part with you during such a time.” he said carefully, digging.

***

“No wife to speak of.” America replied. They were walking side by side again, just a sliver of distance between their arms. He wanted to reach out and grasp his fingers, the way he would when he was younger, but not for the same reason at all. 

_This England isn’t safe. You’re at war._ He tried to remind himself. He didn’t care, not with England in front of him.

“And you, sir? Is your wife back in England?” He knew for certain that no such woman existed, but perhaps England would lie to a human. 

***

England laughed at the question. “Ah, sadly no. I continue to remain a bachelor. My position... allows me that luxury and I am afraid that out of all things I am rather petulant in regards to partnership.” 

He gave a sheepish smile. No wife? Agreeing to a walk in the garden and then his hand… Turning he placed himself partially in the other's path. He searched the other's eyes. “My taste tends to be... rather... well, uncommon.” He tilted his head, assessing the other's reaction.

***

America was sure the heat in his body was going to make him weak in the knees. In the semi-darkness, he couldn’t see the color of England’s eyes, but he knew them well. He had never looked at him like this. 

He stepped forward, pressing into England’s space. He’d made a study of France in the weeks they’d been together. He could smell England over the spring green and the buds starting to show up on the shrubs and trees. He smelled slightly of Madeira, but otherwise, it was all familiar. 

It was as if he’d swallowed a little bird and it was fluttering in his chest. Beating its wings and wanting him to do something rash to free it. Feeling bold under his mask, America reached out and lightly touched England’s shoulder, resisting the urge to grab him and not let go. “Uncommon tastes?” 

He couldn’t help the smile on his face. It covered up his nerves in a way keeping his face still could not.

***

England tilted his head back slightly to look at him, anticipation curling in his chest. “I am terribly fond of leaving such things to interpretation. Makes things... easier... sometimes. Although, things could get out of hand that way.” 

Reaching up, he ran his fingertips over the man's wrist bones, overly pleased that he had removed his gloves. The skin was smooth, soft, he could feel the fluttering of the other man’s pulse. 

“Though if one were to move slow enough... the other would have time to react appropriately, saving either party from too much embarrassment.” The corners of his mouth turned up with amusement as the young man moved closer.

He was surprisingly bold. Maybe it was the mask? Neither of them was truly who they were at times. Masked balls were good for that. More than once had England experienced a physical tryst as a result. Masks only removed during carnal activities, an unspoken agreement to only do so in the dark, and to once again don their disguises after, looking away from the other’s face. It was a game of little consequence, and many benefits.

Taking a step forward, he paused, allowing the other to withdraw. “Uncommon taste, yes.” he breathed. The hand that was not on the wrist of the other moved to touch the bottom stitches of the man’s waistcoat. They were close now, improperly close. He could feel the others shaky breath against his own mouth as he leaned forward. “Haply I think on thee, and then my state, 

Like to the lark at break of day arising  From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate.” The quote came to mind unbidden and out of his mouth before he could stop it. He would only need to lean forward a mere millimeter. He was sure the other would taste of wine and sweetmeats, but he was ever so curious what he actually tasted like underneath the evening's meal. He would be an ample distraction.  

It was that thought that made England pause. A diversion, nothing more. During this time of all times. It was tasteless and nearly disgusting. How could he even be considering such actions during a time like this? A shag in the garden with some masked stranger while the war for his colony continued around him! He should be focusing. The man was handsome, an incubus sent to tempt him, distract him from the actual problem at hand. No. 

Pulling back England smiled softly. “There is nothing either right or bad, but thinking makes it so.” 

He stepped back, putting space between the two of them. He wondered if he would regret it later, he certainly did now. But, that was the way of the world was it not?

“So, I hope your cousin made it here with no problem?” he said, a simple question, reasonable. Anything to banish the desire that was pooled in his stomach only to be disappointed.

***

It took America a moment to come back to reality. “Uh, yes?” He said, knowing he didn’t sound sure, but he couldn’t be worried about that. What had happened? He could still feel the warmth of England’s closeness quickly being snatched away by the evening breeze passing between their bodies. He wanted to reach out, grab England’s coat collar and bring him back. Take the kiss that England denied him. 

England was too far away now. To grab him would be suspicious, England would know. The facade would crumble into nothing. He would be in trouble here surrounded by his enemies. America’s mouth twitched into a frown. How could he have forgotten himself so completely? England was going to kiss some stranger, a young man he’d caught sight of on the other side of the ballroom. It wasn’t enough. 

“I’m sure my cousin is missing my presence. We should return to the party.” He tried not to sound too disappointed. He shouldn’t have come out here. 

England’s face changed his mouth hardening into his more imperious expression. That was good, America hated that face. “Yes, of course.” England nodded, clearing his throat. “That would be the respectable thing to do. I should check on my younger brother as well.”

He turned and began walking, his hand gesturing for America to follow. “Is this the same cousin you escorted up here?” he asked, hoping to gain a little more time with the man. They walked out of the garden and back into the hall, both looking around for their respective relations.

America was prepared to choose a random female and hope it wasn’t one that England knew when he caught sight of Canada. He was on the far side of the room, his face flushed beneath his mask. He was in heated discussion with someone and America had a sinking feeling he knew exactly who it was. Panic spread through his chest, what if England noticed? Luckily, France’s back was to them, and he was half-obscured by several other guests.

“I believe I saw my cousin on the dance floor.” America said, trying to steer England away from the scene before he could see.

“Oh, just a moment I do see my brother over there.” England frowned, placing his hand on the man's arm in a calming manner. America tried to keep his body casual, England had a habit of doing such things. “If you would excuse me for a moment, sir, I really should go check on him.”

“He seems engaged. I know if my older brother interrupted me when I had something in hand it would only make the problem worse.” America said, knowing it was true, knowing that Canada wouldn’t welcome this intervention either.

“Strange.” England frowned, turning to look at him. “My brother and I have a very different relationship than the one you and your brother share. Though I guess it is to be expected.” America stared at him, but England had turned away. _He really doesn’t get it._ America glanced, Canada and France were lost to the crowd again. 

“Well, it is undoubtedly different for both parties. Younger brothers tolerate older brothers until they cannot anymore.” He was getting there again. England desired him, at least for his body. He’d seen it on his face. The emotions of the night wore on him, he felt worse than when he’d been on a battlefield all day. At least there the danger was known. This risk had been a surprise. England had almost kissed him, and now he was distracted, acting like nothing had happened. 

"Has something bothered you, sir?" England was frowning. America tried to loosen the tension in his jaw. Could England really be so dense at his overreach?

“Concern for my brothers. I miss them. They are soldiers... on the wrong side.”

***

“Soldiers on the wrong side, hm?” England straightened his cuffs out of habit rather than necessity. “Trust me, sir. I know where you are coming from. I really do.” 

He looked at the man, contemplating. “This rebellion has been splitting up families since the very beginning. It upsets me that the colonies felt the need to go to such extreme measures, forcing the King’s hand.” He shook his head. Before he could continue he looked over the man’s shoulder, General Clinton was walking towards him quickly clutching papers in his hand. A hard frown was etched on the middle-aged man's face. 

Clinton knew better than to interrupt a party like this unless absolutely necessary. “Forgive me, but it seems like I am needed for important business.” He gave a sad smile. “Perhaps I shall find you later.” he smiled before walking around the man, attention becoming absorbed by his general. 

***

“No, you won’t.” America said after England had disappeared with his general out into the night. He turned, ignoring anyone who tried to speak to him. He needed to find France and get out of there. Even in the company of a stranger England blamed him! It twisted his stomach.

Thank heavens, France was near the door. “Was your mission successful, _Mon ami_?”

“I’ll tell you when we’re out of here. What happened to Canada?” America looked around his brother nowhere to be seen. He looked back at France, his jaw was tight.

“He decided to retire for the evening.”

America nodded and together they went out to fetch the horses, riding to the outskirts of town where they’d stashed their regular clothes in a stable. Changing into dark clothes and packing the beautiful ones they made their way through the fields and woods on the outskirts of Philadelphia. With care, they made their way around British pickets.

The silence and darkness made the scene in the garden play over and over in his head. It was going to haunt his dreams, he knew it. They were some miles away from the city now.

“Perhaps we should stop here, and continue on at first light. Easier to pretend at being travelers when it is not the dark of the night.” France said, dropping his satchel beneath a tree and sitting down. He leaned back and closed his eyes. America came over and sat next to him. 

“France, can I tell you something?”

“Of course.”

“Tonight... he looked at me. I mean, not me, but...” he gestured at his body and France nodded, understanding. “I thought... in the garden that he would... but then he stopped.” He wrapped his arms around his knees, resting his chin on top of them. 

France was silent for a minute, absorbing the information. “Do you think he recognized you?”

“No.”

France shifted, patting America on the back. “Then not all hope is lost for your _coup de coeur_.”

“He blames me for this. He said so.”

“Did you think otherwise?”

America looked up at him. “It’s his fault. You understand don’t you?”

“I know the reason is not my concern.” 

Frowning, America shrugged France’s hand off his back. “You’re no help.”

“I never promised to help you with your relationship with him, only to provide you with supplies and a navy to win your independence.”

“Your reputation would say you are better at _amour_?”

“Not when you butcher my language.” America huffed, and France sighed. “You will have to make your mind known to him. When you have time to speak, that is all you can do. I will repeat my advice I gave you before, guard your heart. England isn’t...”

“Isn’t what?”

“He won’t be gentle with it should you give it to him. Myself on the other hand...” America laughed at that and France smiled, before settling himself down to sleep.

The way England had touched him _was_ gentle, though. America adjusted his pack so he could use it as a pillow. He fell asleep imagining England there, just a hair’s breadth away.

***

The night was deep, and England was still at his writing desk. He leaned back in his chair stretching. He fought the yawn brewing by taking a sip of cold tea. The clock on the mantle told it was three in the morning. The ball had wrapped up around midnight, shame that he had missed the final dances and the chance to take one last look at that young man.

“England?” 

“Canada?” England twisted in the chair to see the boy standing in the doorway, his nightshirt on and holding a candlestick in one hand. His eyes were tired, sad. “Dear boy, what has happened?”

“May I... may I sit here with you for a little while?”

England’s brows pulled together. “Of course.” Canada nodded and walked over to the sitting couch in the study. He sat down pulling his feet up and wrapping his arms around his knees. The effect with the nightshirt made him look the way he did when he was small. His face was troubled.

Turning back to the papers England watched the inked lines blur together. He wasn’t going to be able to get much more work done tonight anyway. Placing the pen back in its well he stood up and went to sit down on the couch.

“Do you want to tell me what’s troubling you, lad? Did you have a poor time at the ball?”

“It wasn’t the ball. I... I ran into someone I didn’t want to see.”

“Who?” Canada shook his head. “All right, you don’t have to tell me.” Canada lifted his eyes to England’s, then he looked away. He shifted, leaning just a little, so his head landed on England’s shoulder. Instinctively, England wrapped an arm around him. He held him, feeling emotions chase each other through Canada’s thin frame. Poor lad. So much had happened. As he had in the past, he ran his fingers through the boy’s hair, more than once had he sent the boys to sleep that way. A comfortable, familiar silence wrapped itself around them.

“I’m with you, England.”

“What has brought this on?”

“I just want you to know. I’m on your side.”

England felt a warmth spread through his chest. He felt a tension that he hadn’t known was in his shoulders release. He was aware that Canada had been fighting on his side since the beginning, but he could not remember the other every vocalizing his intent. It seemed to put things in perspective, more so than before.  He needed to focus on the war, it was good he had not engaged in his baser instincts earlier. “I’m glad.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While this particular ball is a fictional invention, there were many balls/parties of various kinds held during the war - both American and British. These were generally affairs for the wealthy and the high command.
> 
> Next up: Some retreats, some betrayals, and England kicks off stage 2 of the war and brings the fighting to the South.
> 
> Please let us know if you enjoyed the chapter with a comment or a kudo! Thank you for reading!


	17. Changing Tides

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The British evacuate Pennsylvania, a famous act of betrayal occurs, and England realizes he has to be at war with even more of his fellow Europeans.

_June 18, 1778_

_Philadelphia, Pennsylvania_

England watched as the last of his things was loaded up into the cart. Turning he started back into the empty house, once again void of personal touches and warmth. Just a built skeleton and memories. There were a few personal effects remaining, ones he couldn’t bear to disturb since they seemed almost like relics. Little bits of his life with America in the before.  

It was time to head to New York. He couldn’t hold this place anymore, and he didn’t dare follow that thought any further than this temporary retreat.

***

_June 26, 1778_

_Valley Forge, Pennsylvania_

“They’re evacuating, they’re leaving Philadelphia!” America’s fingers shook, holding onto the intelligence note. Even Washington wasn’t immune to America’s excitement. They were getting the city back and they weren’t going to have to fire a shot. It was working. England was worried about his alliance with France. He didn’t want his army to be split in two when France’s ships arrived. America didn’t even care that he was sweating from what was turning out to be a really warm start to the summer.

“They are leaving with 11,000 Regulars and about 1000 fleeing Loyalists. They have already departed and with all their supplies they will be stretched over a wide area.” said a Major whose name America couldn’t remember.

“Plenty of opportunity for attack.” said General Wayne. Several others voiced their ideas for how to attack the British force from behind rang out. They’d been talking about it for days. If only they could agree how to do it. 

“I think it would be foolish to attack in any large force beyond skirmishes. The force is just too large and they will no doubt protect their supplies.” brought up General Lee. America frowned. The man seemed all right, but he was always so opinionated. There was also that scandal where the man had been captured by the British while too busy with a mistress. Really, America wanted to tell him to be quiet, he didn’t care that he’d been at Montreal in the last war or served bravely in _England’s_ army. He was about to when Washington spoke up. America bit his lip, they would figure it out.

The conversation continued, until finally Washington spoke again. “We are going to send a force of 4000 men to attack the rear. General Lee, would you like to lead this charge?” 

“That number is insufficient for the purposes. I must turn down such a plan for it is certain of failure.”

Back to talking. America stared at the map. _Where are you now, England? At the front? Or at the back?_ Did it matter? Yes, America decided. It would be the first time he’d be anywhere near England since news of his alliance with France reached him. This wasn’t just between them anymore, and he was the one who got France involved. _I will have my independence._

“General Lafayette, would you be willing to take a force of 5,500 men to attack the British position?” Washington asked. It was a larger number than had been offered to Lee.

“ _Oui._ It would be an honor, sir.”

“The boy is hardly qualified to lead such an attack. I insist that I lead the advance force.” Lee interrupted. _Of course you do. There might be some glory in it now._ America thought, his feelings towards the man a little sour. There were rumors of some British coin swirling around Lee and some of those close to him. No proof, but America didn’t like it at all. 

“Take command then, General Lee.” Lee planted a finger on the map near where America was leaning, startling him. 

“We will make the attack near Monmouth courthouse.”

*** 

_June 28, 1778_

_Battle of Monmouth_

It was hot. America didn’t have any way of measuring, but from where he sat on his horse he was sweating. Everyone was. A few soldiers had even fallen over in the heat and they hadn’t even gotten started yet. He’d ridden up with General Lee, wanting to be part of the action. It may have also been that he wanted to see if England was there, but he didn’t dwell on that reasoning for too long. He looked over at Major Tallmadge who was trying to keep up an inspiring demeanor even as he sweated as much as the rest of them.

As everyone moved forward something didn’t feel right. General Lee’s instructions hadn’t exactly been specific. Each of the field commanders had their own ideas of how to interpret the instructions and America could only hope that it was going to be enough. He could hear it now, the pipes and drums of the British army. 

They knew they were coming.

“I knew it...” Tallmadge said. America looked out at the woods and bit back the curse. Washington may be a half-day away, but he would tell America off for foul language as much as any of his other commanders. The Regulars were in front of them, but they were also to the left and right. 

They had to hold the line until Washington arrived.

***

Pulling up his horse short, England was greeted by four salutes and a half curtsey.  Lieutenant General Charles Cornwallis, 1st Marquess Cornwallis, the man who was to lead his first division troops into battle that day, General Sir Henry Clinton, Lieutenant General Wilhelm von Knyphausen in charge of his second division, the Honourable Major General Alexander Leslie and Mrs. Ann Bates. 

“Lord Kirkland we have reports on the rebels.” Before England could dismount Clinton shoved a handful of missives to the nation. Leaping down from the mare’s back to level ground, he accepted the documents.

“Good, good. I see that some of our strategies may have changed since the last time I saw them on the table.” He shuffled through them. “And I was also unaware that Ms. Bates was to be on site today. Lovely to see you Madame.” An afterthought, “No disrespect, but I do need to know everything going on with my troops.”

“No offense taken, my Lord.” Ann gave another curtsey. 

Clinton interrupted. “The reason there are changes is actually because of Mrs. Bates, Lord Kirkland. She has agreed to help our spy network.”

“Men think nothing of camp followers and female peddlers.” Ann pitched in with a smile. “If I may say so, the belief that men have regarding the mental capabilities, or lack there of, is what will someday be man's downfall.” 

Expressions of shock and disbelief flickered through the men present and England couldn’t help the laughter that slipped past his lips. The amount of truth this woman spoke! Only fools thought that a King and parliament were ruled by men, it was the women whispering in their ears  and the gossips at the tables that had the real influence in politics and society. England had seen it happen time and time again, for centuries. He wondered if they would ever learn. 

Flipping through the missives he read them with half interest. He trusted Clinton, and Ann had proven to be a woman of great integrity and skill. He had first met the woman in Philadelphia, her home. She had been trying to find anything of her own that had not been wrecked by the soldiers, in her own house as well as that of her school. That explained why her patience was so solid, one did not survive teaching children with a quick temper. Despite the dangerous job she was performing, she never appeared frazzled or out of sorts. Shaking his head he scanned the papers once more.

 “All right, these are good.” He grinned. “Ma’am I have a feeling that you may help us greatly in the near future.” his grinned widened. He climbed back up on his horse’s back.

“Those blasted rebels shall see no victory today.” England said. Pulling his reins taught he backed up his horse, making sure his hat sat squarely on his head just before he tossed the missives back to Clinton. “All right! You have your orders, now let's get on with it!”

***

“Molly! Pitcher!” 

America blinked the sweat out of his eyes as he picked up the next cannonball and waited for the other artilleryman to set the charge. For just a moment, as he waited, he looked over the cannon to the woman pouring water on the scalding metal. Everything was hot - the day, the guns, the men and women on the battlefield. If the guns weren’t cooled between shots they were as likely to blow up their keepers as they were a red coat across the field. It was mechanical. Fire. Cool. Load. Fire again.

“Ready! Fire!” 

Boom! America felt the sound in his body as much as heard it. His ears rang from the constant volley.

“Lookout!” 

A cannonball whistled towards them, shredding the earth as it struck the ground between America’s gun and the next. Grass and dirt splattered his face, but America couldn’t dwell on it for too long. At least it hadn’t carved its way through a human body.

“Molly! Pitcher!” Someone shouted again. The woman was already there with her bucket. America had learned from her husband that her name was actually Mary, Molly was just a fond nickname that had caught on amongst the artillery group. She and her husband had come from Philadelphia to Valley Forge that winter. He looked to where her husband should be standing, but he couldn’t see him.

“Mr. Hays!” America hurried to the other side of the gun. Molly’s husband was laying on the ground. One of the other artillerymen leaned over him. 

“Passed out from the heat.” he said to Molly and America. He waved for some volunteers to carry him off the field. Before he was even on the stretcher Molly had picked up Mr. Hays’s tamping rod.

“I’ve seen my husband do it enough times.” she said. America nodded and the team went back to work. Load. Fire. Pitcher! Again and again.

America grew numb to the sounds and focused on his task. If he paused, the desire to seek England out on the field would come over him again. To find out if he was still in the rear of the column or if he’d gone ahead to the crossing from New Jersey into New York. 

A cannonball whistled too close and he looked over to see Molly standing there looking at her skirt. It was shredded, the cannonball had passed right between her feet. She looked up at him. “Well, that could have been worse.” Without another word she went back to work. America wasn’t sure if he should laugh or be horrified. A boy ran up the hill, shouting for him.

“Mr. Jones! The general has sent a message.” Not wanting the messenger in the line of fire, America hurried to the relative safety of the other side of the hill. He ripped open the dispatch, swallowing. When had he last had a drink of water?

The official seal came free and he stared at the words. _We’ve called off the action. The British navy has closed ranks around New York._ France hadn’t gotten there in time. England had managed to get across the water with his supplies. 

America bit back the curse that rose to his lips. Another sheet of paper. was behind the first. _Do not worry. Setbacks occur. We will get him._ France hadn’t bothered to sign it, but America balled the piece of paper into his fist regardless. He went for his horse, intending to find Washington and tell him they might as well pull back. The drums were already sounding withdrawal. No one was taking the field that day.

***

 “All right! You have your orders, now let's get on with it!” England couldn’t believe that he had only said that hours ago. After fighting in the hot summer weather, it could have easily been days. Typically the nation wouldn’t be feeling exhaustion yet, but his health had only been on the decline as the war progressed. 

Despite his fatigue, England burned with rage as Washington forced him and his Black Watch to fall back after a three-hour skirmish. The morning had shown such promise. Night came with a hanging head of disappointment that even Cornwallis's success against Greene could not lift. The night began with a retreat to Sandy Hook in a blanket of darkness, Clinton as his rearguard. The battle as a whole had come to a draw. 

Then the morning came, June 30th. England found himself lying in a cot. Mrs. Loaring was dampening the cloth for his forehead. His fever had returned. _Wonderful._

England wasn’t alone, he could see Clinton sitting down nearby looking over documents at field desk. Seeing that he was awake, Clinton stood up from his camp chair. “Arthur, the rebels held the field, but some supplies that made it through is nothing to shrug our shoulders at.” Clinton sighed, reading a missive. Rubbing the bridge of his nose, he let out another sigh. He looked tired. They all did. 

“I am aware of that,” England muttered, closing his eyes, “we shall discuss our failure later.” 

He was tired. Lately, he was always tired. Of everything.

***

_1779_

_Dear Charlotte,_

_I sometimes wonder if this rebellion is a challenge of my strength in the storm from the divine himself. Now Spain is becoming entangled with the New World even further.  The Spanish troops are attacking forts in the West Indies and Florida. There is so much happening, and I would rather tell you face to face, so I shall keep this letter short. I am doing fine, and I pray you are as well. I miss the lot of you._

_With all my Love,_

_Arthur_

***

_May 12, 1780_

_Charleston, South  Carolina_

_Dear Charlotte,_

_With the northern campaign all but over we have turned our attentions to the southern colonies. My dear Queen, everything seems to be passing in a haze, I write this letter to you on the evening of May 12.  Honestly, in the morning I will have to check that this is legible for I am so very tired. Our troops and I have been at siege for six whole weeks. We started the battle on March 29th, and as of this evening, the rebel Major General Benjamin Lincoln of the Charleston garrison surrendered at my gun point. It is all very well and done, and the men are split between sleeping off their exhaustion or celebrating with drinks, which will certainly lead to sleeping off their fatigue and waking with headaches._

_We captured a little over five thousand rebels and a copious amount of supplies from the surrender.  Though it seems that some of the men might not be all up there. Despite warning from one of my Hessian generals, soldiers did not check to see if weaponry being stacked was still loaded. As a result, some five thousand muskets were set off due to the first gun lighting almost two hundred barrels of gunpowder. We suffered casualties of men and structures. The fools._

_It was a great victory, and I am certain the rebel leaders are red with anger and embarrassment. That shall keep me warm tonight, but Charlotte, I am so tired. Every day it's as if someone has replaced muscle and bone in my limbs with that of water and musket balls. Sometimes I wish that the morning would wait an eternity to come and that I could sleep its length._

_Sometimes I feel that my hope is dwindling, that this rebellion will end in the most unfavorable of ways. But if these thoughts plague me during the day I am instantly pulled from my sour mood as I see men from the island fighting alongside the Loyalists from the colonies, marching alongside me as we travel to put out another pocket of uprisings._

_Every night I pray that America will see the error in his ways and come speak to me like the young man, not a child, that I know I raised him to be. I am terrified that I have angered the Almighty in some way or another and that he has turned from me in righteous anger at this time. I hope that is not the case. This letter is going to become long if I continue to write, and I do not wish to send you to sleep with my worries. So, I shall leave it there, I hope this letter finds you and the family well. I plan to return home for a bit._

_With all my Love,_

_Arthur_

***

_June 1780_

“I cannot believe that Lincoln continued negotiating for ‘Honors of War' how could he?” America dropped into the chair at the small rickety table they had been using to write on. Washington merely watched him quietly. “We knew England would never go for it. What made Lincoln think that was okay?” Blue eyes practically bored holes through the letters and the table itself, as if ink and paper would change their letters and answer his question. They should have known better, after all, many of the older ones had been in England’s army. England dispensed honors of war as begrudgingly as he dispensed anything.

“America-”

“It was humiliating!” Jumping up from his seat, America began to pace. “To have been defeated so thoroughly! England is probably gloating about his victory as we speak.” Clasping his hands at the back of his neck he scowled. He gave into the fact that his whirling mind had no interest in focusing on something else that evening. He and France had barely made it out of that Fort before Lincoln had surrendered. England could be so stubborn at times! Why did he have to keep pushing until he got his way? 

“America-”

“It was so... so...” _Frightening._ England had brought a full force against him, not piecemeal strikes like he’d done in the past. America shook his head, stunned a little as he remembered the siege. It had been massive, the amount of militia, regiments, officers that swarmed the area like ants. The tales of grandeur that had spilled from England's lips when he had too much liquor hadn’t prepared America for an invasion of that magnitude. Roughly 12,000 men, not counting those on the ships had taken his city. It had been like nothing he’d ever seen. He had felt no rush of the battle, there was no sword arm tired from swinging a blade soaked in the blood of your foes, there were no battle cries of war horses. It was so different than he had expected. But that had been the war as a whole, right? 

America shook his head again, rubbing at his knees in frustration. He would have to patch his breeches again. Maybe he could ask that woman, Mrs. Barnes? She always seemed to be around. The entire thing was such a shock, and he wasn’t sure he would ever be used to it. But it didn't matter! England wouldn’t win this. A swell of determination, injured pride mixed with a sliver of something else whirled in his chest. 

America would win, even if he had a bit of doubt there was no backing down. England himself had taught him that. Stand up for what you believe in and never back down. Even if England was in the wrong that was what he was doing as well right? That's why he was standing in his stirrups in Charleston screaming orders while France pulled him from the fort at a run. One look at the blond haired nation filled him with certainty. England knew how to control troops, how to change decisions in the blink of an eye. He felt the tide of battle in his very veins. America had seen it in his eyes as he recounted tales of glory and death. It was like a chess board to the empire, and he was its Queen, always ready to checkmate.  

Oh, that was what that sliver of emotion was. America stopped rubbing at his knees, hands folding together. It was respect. Even France had some of that for England. How could he not? He was going to show England that he was worthy of respect too. England would probably have the empire he was going on about. But, that didn’t make it right for him to be a bully. America would not be part of that. England was used to his chess board of the world. England's wars were a simple game, quick, the fastest. F3 to E6. Checkmate.

_The brave men of Massachusetts have violated the cardinal rule of warfare. That is one must always let the British win._ America smiled at the memory of Dr. Franklin’s words as he strolled into Congress one day. He had been at court. He knew all about what went on there.

“Alfred?” The use of his human name caught America’s attention. Looking up he found his general kneeling in front of him. This Virginia plantation owner that had been at his side from the very beginning. “It was a terrible loss.” the older man continued “I will not deny that, however, it’s not over yet.”

“It’s not over.” America grinned. “There is no way that I am going to give in like that. We’re gonna show him. That’s what we are fighting for right? The freedom to make our own choices. And my choice is to keep fighting!” 

He grinned, the other returning it with a subdued smile. It was as good as a grin when it came to Washington. He stood up.

"England never worried about the F pawn. However, he has underestimated me. I am the F pawn, and he just hasn't realized that. He hasn't paid attention, and he's gonna lose the game for that. I will win... I will checkmate the Queen.”

It was clear now. England was only going to understand when America made him.

***

_October 2, 1780_

_Near Tappan, Orangetown, New York_

America stood with the crowd watching the somber procession. The drums beat out a steady rhythm and the pipes played a mournful tune. Everyone was silent as they watched the man in the red coat walking to his death. A cart was pulled up beneath a tree, a rope hanging from the makeshift gallows. America watched the hangman for a moment, his blackened face focused on what he needed to do. Spies were hung, that was just the way of things.

He couldn’t help but think of Nathan Hale, killed so many years before. _My only regret is I only have one life to lose for my country._ Did this man walking to his death feel the same? Major John Andre, special adjutant to General Clinton, spymaster of His Majesty’s Royal Army was going to swing for the plot he’d concocted with the turncoat, Benedict Arnold. 

Andre took the steps slowly, his face grim. At the top he took the noose in his own hands and looped it over his head. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and made a blindfold, tying it over his eyes. With no face and only in his uniform he could have been anyone. He could have been England. America looked away, he didn’t want to think about England like that no matter what he was doing. Even if he was still adamant about trying to split the southern colonies from the ones he could no longer hold. Even if he was a fool that couldn’t hear what America was trying to tell him. That he’d resorted to treachery when he couldn’t win much ground on the battlefield.

“Guilty of espionage with the traitor Benedict Arnold.” They began to read the crimes off a piece of paper and Arnold’s name made America feel sick. The betrayal was still fresh, too shocking. He’d known the man for so long, but it hadn’t been enough for him to be loyal, to believe in America. At first, he thought there must have been some mistake. However, when Andre had been captured in the woods it all came out. They’d corresponded for months. The British were going to compensate him for his information. He’d been behind the plot that bankrupted Congress. He would have handed over America to England’s waiting hands. For money. For glory he thought he’d been denied. It made America feel hollow.

“Does the condemned have anything to say?”

America looked back up, watching as Andre lifted the blindfold with his tied hands so he could look at the crowd that had gathered. “I ask all of you to bear me witness that I died a brave man.” The tone of his voice was similar to the one England had cultivated in the past century. When America had first met him, his accent had been different, but it had changed a little here and a little there. The way his words sounded were the least of the changes. Andre’s eyes seemed to catch on someone in particular and America looked.

Margaret Shippen Arnold, Peggy her family called her, had her eyes fixed on him. They were filled with tears, more than a stranger warranted. America had liked her, she was charming and he’d sat with her when she came to West Point. She was very good at cards. America stared at her. Did she love her turncoat husband or this red coat spy? 

The gasp of the crowd brought his eyes back to the man who’d been dropped, he struggled. Two men stepped out to pull on his legs to break his neck. It was all done now. _If only Benedict Arnold was there beside him,_ America thought.

A breeze picked up pricking the sweat on America’s skin. Andre’s body swayed as people filed by, lifting their hats in respect or bowing their heads. The image of England there in place of Andre surfaced again and America turned away. That wasn’t going to happen, no matter what else went on in this war. 

He nearly bumped into Major Tallmadge, his own spymaster. They looked at each other for a moment. America could see he was upset too, they had all been betrayed after all. Arnold had cared more about gold and glory than them, than his country. If fate had different plans, they’d be the ones hung from a tree. England would have America locked up somewhere no doubt. Fear stirred in America’s stomach and he hurried away, not wanting anyone to see. Everyone was already rattled enough. He hid behind smiles and nods until he made it back to his tent.

The flap was barely tied before his stomach gave up the fight. He grabbed for the chamber pot and emptied his stomach, spitting the foul taste from his mouth. He pushed it away and lay on the ground, curling up into a ball. What would Arnold tell them? What would England use the information to do? Would West Point fall?

He grit his teeth, pushing himself off the floor. America stumbled to his writing desk and pulled a piece of paper towards him. He dipped the quill into the inkwell, pausing with the nib over the paper.

_Dear England,_

He stopped, then tore off the top of the paper to begin again.

_England,_

_I hope you enjoy the company of the traitor that wandered into your camp from mine. I won’t be missing him. Perhaps you can send him to one of your balls, the kind with - what did you used to call them? Fairy lights?_

Lifting the quill, America had no idea why he brought up that ball. It was two years ago! Even if the memory of England so close to him sprung up now and again, he’d decided to ignore it. England was certainly doing something similar with the aristocratic Tories in the South now, but America had no desire to try and see him there. The next time he was alone with England it would be after he won, or if England captured him... and he didn’t want to think about the latter possibility. Now the idea of reaching out and touching England was distracting him. He looked back at the letter. 

_I look forward to seeing you again when we are equals and trust me it will be sooner than you want to think. Benedict Arnold is of no importance._

He considered adding something else, a dig about France or a diatribe about Canada, but he couldn’t. This letter was between him and England. He didn’t want those other two in the way.

_I look forward to your surrender!_

_Sincerely,_

_America_

He folded the brief missive tightly and reached for his stick of sealing wax. Holding it up to the candle, he felt it grow softer in his fingers. The wax rippled in the heat and dripped onto the paper as America reached for a seal in his travel desk. The one that met his fingers was pockmarked with age and without thinking he pushed it into the rapidly cooling wax. Upon lifting it revealed the first one that England had ever given him. It was a looping A with the silhouette of a rabbit behind it. He stared at it, but before he could second guess it he went to Washington’s tent and put it with the official correspondence.

Turning around, he stopped when he saw France sitting at the campaign table. France raised an eyebrow at him. “Is that something I should worry about?”

“I’m just telling him that I’ll meet him on the battlefield. No need to go through the trouble of scraping off my seal and reading my letters.” 

France’s mouth twitched. He wasn’t exactly keeping it a secret how deeply he was trying to embed himself in America’s affairs. “These two years appear to have quite beaten the romantic out of you.”

America gave him a smile, he was getting comfortable with this one. He saw France’s eyebrows draw together slightly, France couldn’t read him when he was smiling. “Whatever you say, France!” he said, walking away. France could read into that however he liked. He didn’t notice, however, that France picked up the letter and put it in the fire.

_***_

_Early December, 1780_

_London, England_

“John got caught.” England sighed, reading over the letter that a courier boy had rushed to his chambers that morning. England had returned home in July. The morning had started out cold and chilly, the snow carrying a bite that not even the fireplaces of the palace could ultimately keep at bay. 

George had taken up with his advisers with an ill temper that morning, and England had used it to his advantage and took refuge in Charlotte's chambers. Despite George’s bouts of insanity, he and Charlotte often dismissed much of the grandeur and pomposity of the court whenever possible. So the fact that Charlotte was spending a bit of time in the morning in bed was by all means allowed by the King with graciousness. It seemed, however, that he had not been the only one in search of the Queen's company and warm sheets that morning. Reading government papers while two little girls fought for purchase in your lap, coupled with the two pairs of hands pressing into your shoulders made for quite the distraction. 

“ _Andre wurde gefangen?! Dieser arme Mann Er war eine gute Seele._ ” Charlotte gave him a look of surprise, briefly glancing up from the cooing babe in her arms. Despite learning English quickly when she married George, Charlotte had been thrilled when she heard of Andre and realized he was fluent in German as well as many other languages. For a man from a merchant family, he’d been quite accomplished.

“ _Ja er war._ It seems that he was found guilty on the 29th of September and hung in October it seems.” He sighed again, watching her. England had arrived in her bedroom that morning at the same time as the young prince’s wet nurse had. The boy, Alfred, was almost four months of age, leaving Charlotte plump with childbirth. The labor had worried England for a while. Charlotte was a strong woman, yet Prince Alfred was her fourteenth child, and all of the children had survived. Charlotte was not getting any younger. The Queen peered at the two-year-old who was yawning in her lap and pressed a kiss to his head, receiving a grumble from the half asleep Prince Octavius. 

He glanced at the bed, love, and adoration filling his chest. In his lap sat Sophia of four years and Mary of six years.  Leaning over his shoulder and trying to read the report was Prince Adolphus who was seven and proudly announced the fact to anyone who would listen. Augustus stood by his brother, his eight-year-old eyes filled with curiosity. England doubted he would see the other eight children sneaking into Charlotte’s room that morning, but he would see them at supper.

“That is terrible. The rebels should have put Mr. Andre to a firing squad at least. He was an officer.”

“Apparently they denied it because he was a spy... they held him at Tappan, New York. And it seems there was an appeal made to Clinton in exchange for Arnold, but Clinton denied it. John had been carrying six sheets of paper, that pointed to Benedict Arnold's treason. George Washington refused to believe that Arnold was a traitor it seems.” England shook his head, disliking the distress on the Queen’s face. Andre had been liked by everyone that had met him, even his captors liked him. The man was one of those individuals who practically oozed charisma. When he had been captured in 1775 in Lancaster, they had given him free reign of the town solely on his promise not to escape. 

The young man had served as Lieutenant in the 7th of Foot in Canada, but England himself had not met the man until he was promoted to Captain in the 26th foot in 1777. Even when England's troops occupied New York and Philadelphia Patriots and Loyalists alike called him the friend. The arts came easily to John, he could paint, sketch, sing a song that would woo maidens and more often than not he had written the verse for his voice. He even penned most of Clinton’s correspondence. England had been dead set on taking him back after shutting down the rebellion and putting him to use as one of Charlotte's attendees. England found himself liking the man, and they had shared more than one time of laughter and drink.

"So General Arnold got away?"

"Yes. That was actually why Andre was in the area. John and Arnold were meeting up so that Arnold could give John all the information we would need to successfully take West Point. Arnold got away, but John was captured." England sighed. "It seems that Clinton feels that Arnold will be more useful to us than Andre."

"Which one would you choose?" Charlotte asked quietly, looking at him. "If you could go back and pick one of them who would it be?"

"Who would I save you mean?" England folded up the letter. "The master of my spy network or the rebel general turncoat who realized years into the war that he was on the wrong side? Honestly, I cannot answer that.” He shrugged his shoulders, wrapping his arms around Mary and Sophia. "I will always be wary of Arnold, afraid of a double agent. And this... I cannot lie I do wonder about how America is taking all of this. Arnold has waited this long to become a full-fledged traitor. It's a lot..." 

He shook his head, pressing a kiss to each of the girl's heads as their nursemaids came in. America didn’t need to invade the quiet of the moment. He’d been small like this once, warm and affectionate... 

A knock at the door revealed a set of servants, fetching the children to be dressed for breakfast.  Accepting a kiss on each cheek from Adolphus and Augustus, England watched them leave. Picking up Octavius he began a simple game of pattycake with the toddler. 

There was so much going on with this rebellion. Arthur found himself becoming more and more uncertain as time went on. Clenching his teeth, he commented once more on breaking the silence. “To get Benedict Arnold and Guy Fawkes in the same room would be an experience.”

***

_Mid December_ _1780_

“Belgium, dear, you know I have given you a list a kilometer long of my grievances.” he said. England sighed, patting the blonde woman’s hand. Belgium herself had accompanied the set of diplomats that had approached his court and after a tense and failed attempt at negotiating he had invited the female nation to walk along the corridors, it being much too cold to walk the gardens. England shifted, trying not to tug on her arm that was tucked against his own. Another war. America & France. France & Spain. Now the Dutch Republic. Was this was what the fourth time he’d had to fight Netherlands? Yes, that was it, the fourth time he would be formally challenging the Dutch. “You-”

“Yes! Yes!” Belgium nodded, before clearing her throat and deepening her voice. “You helped this American privateer, you did supplies with Sir Whats-his-face- and ever so more.” She smiled at him, a quirk of her mouth. She was making fun of him. All women seemed to make the same voice when mocking men, human or nation. How did they manage it?

“You are correct…” England said slowly. England hadn’t been too keen on filing that list of complaints to the Dutch Republic, but he had no interest in Russia getting involved, he had no desire for Catherine II of Russia getting involved in this mess. England had been surprised that her older brother, Netherlands, had sent her rather than Luxemburg. Granted, she was a welcome face. Even if she did mean that Netherlands saw England’s declaration of war as a trifle. “Belgium, I-”

“Oh come now, Arthur!” Belgium heaved a dramatic sigh. “There are so many people around who don’t know who we truly are and confusion should be avoided right! Plus we have known each other for so long!”

“You’re right.” England gave a small smile. “Of course, Lady Laura.” He shook his head as Belgium laughed. 

“You promised me tea did you not? Well come along I’m parched!” She smiled prettily, and England agreed with little hesitation. Belgium had always been the cheerful sort. And more than once England felt that she and America would have gotten along swimmingly. He had no problems with the woman, it was her older brother Govert that he had arguments with. 

Belgium had little control over what happened, which honestly is how it should be. How on earth had America managed to get into the good graces of the Dutch!? Perhaps Belgium would know something after all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo! This whirlwind of a chapter covered June 1778 through December 1780. The war has come to a tipping point, it just needs a little more of a push!
> 
> Please note, the character names for Belgium and Netherlands were pulled from notes from Himaruya about names he liked (they have never been given official names).
> 
> If you enjoyed please leave us a comment or a kudo!


	18. The Turning of the Tide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> America and France plot a battle to force England's hand. England returns to North America only to run smack dab into the French fleet.

_March 13, 1781_

_Philadelphia_

America couldn’t keep the grin off his face as he walked down the street with the Articles of Confederation and Perpetual Union rolled up under his arm. It was official now, the federal government had its authority and the states had theirs. It had taken a few years, but everyone had finally agreed. The states were truly united now. The ceremony at high noon had been celebratory. 

Beyond that, the news from the Carolina campaigns was promising. England may have gotten a win last year with the fall of Charleston, but he didn’t know the terrain. America’s people were there to oppose him at every turn. Cornwallis’s army was becoming scattered, fragmented. 

Philadelphia was fully his again, England’s abandonment of it haphazard. It was like fencing, the opponent had faltered, and he was able to get his point inside his defense. Hard to come back from that. America’s grin widened. He was gaining the upper hand. 

He walked up the steps into his house, pausing in the doorway. There was a pair of boots sitting just inside the door. 

“France! Are you back?”

“With great news, my boy!” His voice called from the parlor and America kicked off his own muddy boots and walked in stocking feet into the other room. France was seated in England’s old armchair. He’d done it the few times he’d visited. It had irked America at first, but the image seemed less and less strange. He had a few letters in his lap, his hair pulled over his shoulder in ribbon. He was in his white uniform coat, the lapels a powder blue. He had his feet near the fire. He glanced up at America when he entered the room. “You look like the cat that got the cream.”

America dropped into his own chair, brandishing the paper at France. “I have an official government. We celebrated it today. No king. No parliament.” France reached out and took the paper, unfurling it and looking it over. 

America was too fidgety to recline. He scooted to the edge of his seat, his body quivering with energy. France made a show of reading the document, and America glanced up at the vase he’d put on the mantle when he came back. It had been stuffed in a drawer when the city had been retaken. It was china, wrought with little characters. England had brought it to him when he was little. It had a little hairline crack from when he’d knocked it over. England had patted his head and told him it was fine. After that, America had painstakingly glued the pieces back together. He still wondered who had hidden it away.

“Well done, _Amerique,_ it almost makes me jealous.” France said, handing the paper back to America. 

“What do you mean almost?”

“I don’t foresee such a constitution in my country any time soon. Your plan does seem an improvement on England’s government.”

America made a face. “I didn’t copy him.”

A diplomatic smile. “Of course not.”

“So what news did you have?” America said, reaching for some of the letters on France’s lap. 

“Big Brother is going to help you win this war, and win it soon. England is showing you his back.” He gave a rakish smile and handed the letters over. America sat down and looked at the first one.

“He went home?!” America said. “Last July?!” 

“My spies say he practically locked himself in at Windsor Castle. However, he deigned to emerge when his navy intercepted a Dutch ship. So he knows about that by now. Beyond loaning money to you, Netherlands may have been shipping me a thing or two.”

“England started another war? What about me?” Frustration settled on his shoulders. A conversation about England growing bored of wars floated in his mind. He could hear Prussia’s voice as if it were yesterday, _wars of passion are hard to give up._ Was it really nothing to England then, their war? “He can’t just pick up and leave! This isn’t finished.” he said.

“Do not worry _, mon lapin,_ England is not finished with you yet. I’m not done with him either.” France reached for a glass on the end table and took a long sip. America watched the glass drain. France had decided on that particular endearment some time ago, but it still felt strange.

“So, when are you going to do more than just drink my wine?” he asked.

“As if those ships, muskets, and gunpowder weren’t more. Your wit needs sharpening.” He set the glass down and leaned on the arm of the chair. “But yes, I have some plans for my navy. I have a plan to break England’s blockade, but it will take a few months to prepare. You need to do your part and drive his army to one position. Do you have a map? There are several places we could attack.”

America nodded and they stood up to walk into the dining room. The map was still laying out, wooden pieces signifying armies laid across it. France pointed at the coast near New York. The high command of the British army were still there. 

Their grip was strong, it would be hard to move them out of York City, too much room for England to maneuver his ships, America thought. France could say what he wanted, but England controlled the forts at the mouth of the bay. America began to look at the southern coast. He moved France’s hand and pointed to a new spot. “Or down here in Virginia. There’s news that they are trying to build a port near the Chesapeake.”

“Then we will gather information and decide where.”

“Do you think he’ll surrender this time?” America leaned on his elbows on the table. France stood by his side. America looked at the different markers, wouldn’t it be so fine to wipe away all of the ones that represented British troops?

“I think you will have to make him.” France said. He reached over and put a hand on America’s shoulder. He squeezed. “Are you ready for that America?”

“I’ve been ready for that since 1776.” America answered. The idea of it being over made him want to run through the streets waving his flag. He plucked one of the little Union Jacks from the board and turned it over in his fingers. Soon, he’d be able to toss them all away. 

France moved his hand, grasping America’s chin so he had to look away from the map. “I do not think that is true. Mark this, America. This may be the final year of the war. You will be independent. You will be free.”

America had thought those words every day since Lexington and Concord. Freedom. Independence. “I understand. I’m ready to accept his surrender.”

“Have you ever seen another nation surrender to another? Did you see your brother when he had to surrender on my behalf?”

America straightened up, brushing France’s hand off his chin. “England didn’t let me.”

France’s expression softened a bit. “Then you don’t know what it’s like to conquer or be conquered, America, even vicariously.”

“Then how do I know I’ve won?” asked America, crossing his arms. France was being cryptic again.

“You’ll see it in his eyes. Trust me. It will be something, you should embrace it. _Mon cher Angleterre_ is not used to bowing his head to anyone.” Silence stretched between them. France’s expression had changed, he was remembering something. He seemed to look past America as though whatever it was played out just over his shoulder. A moment later, he focused again and smiled at America. “Now, let us talk about how we will bring about such a happy occurrence as England’s surrender and your full independence. I will be leaving to speak to Spain soon, he’s meeting me in the West Indies.”

***

_Summer 1781_

_London, England_

All the nausea had been replaced with numbness.  England found it hard to muster up more energy than the simple nod when news, whether it be good or bad, was delivered to him in regards to the war. He had expected it to get better, but so far nothing had. He had received news that morning about the Battle of Guileford. He had won, but the win had cost his men dearly. 

His stomach twisted, that had not been the news that had been looking to wake to. The information hung over him like a heavy cloud all morning, nearly creating a storm in the dining room. And now, even without a single cloud in the blue sky of a London summer afternoon it threatened. It was as though a hurricane were brewing on his shores. The newspapers didn’t help. His people were getting tired of the war. Some were even calling for capitulation, give the Americans their independence so we can be done with the matter!

From the shade of multiple umbrellas he watched as some of Charlotte and George's children  played with one another. England had opted for reading missives and keeping Prince Octavius company in his lap. A sudden feeling of unease had settled in his belly half way through supper and now he suspected that he had taken a fever. Leaning back against the pillows that had been brought out to the lawn he carded his hands through the wispy hair on the toddler's hair. A sort of ache developed in his chest. 

Children always grew up too fast and often not in the way that you expected. Sometimes he looked away and a human lifetime seemed to have flown by. He had hoped that George would outgrow his quirks as a child, but they only seemed to worsen with age. America had called him a mad tyrant. England wouldn’t go that far, but the man’s already short temper had grown even shorter.

Away from the battlefield, England had the chance to sit down and truly look at the lead up to, what America’s newspaper were calling, a revolution. He supposed he should have seen it coming. America took everything as a challenge. While they may not have come to blows, America was almost more of a hindrance than France was in the last war. At least France stood like a gentleman on the battlefield. America would slip away into the woods and disappear. America had challenged everything to a fault, not so much as in disobedience but rather as if he viewed everything as a direct challenge to him. When had his people become America’s? From discovery to now, things had changed. It had required a different type of hardiness to live in an uncultured land versus maneuvering the social complications of London. He’d stood in what America was calling his capitol. They were nothing alike.

“Ladies.” England grinned, thoughts breaking as, not only the Princesses Mary and Sophia plopped down beside him, but Elizabeth as well, little plumes of silk rustling about the blanket on the grass. Children seemed to go out and do things their own way despite the directions of their parents. Even Canada was showing that, he had told Matthew not to pick sides. There had been hope then, that America would see sense in regards to the insurgency. Yet, Canada’s statement at the ball in Philadelphia had solidified that he had not heeded England's warning and had made up his own mind. These colonies grew up far too fast for his likings.

“Arthur, are you alright?” It was a deep voice that broke through his consciousness. A symphony of  ‘George!’s  erupted about the yard and England watched in amusement as the heir to the throne was swarmed by his brothers and sisters. 

George was a bright young man of nineteen years, he had little heart for politics to the distress of his tutors. Not to mention a wild streak and a propensity for scandal. The young brunette with his charming smile and brown curls wooed maidens and coveted the arts. He was a tad selfish, but most royals were brought up with similar smudge on their personalities. England hoped he would outgrow it. England waved as three others entered into the garden. Frederick who would turn eighteen soon, William was sixteen and beautiful Princess Charlotte was but a year younger. The Princes and Princesses kept his heart easy, the succession would be simple should something happen to the King.

“I am fine George, just a little tired.” England assured the crown prince, but judging the look in his eyes he knew he did not fool the young man. 

“Go and play, I want to speak in private with Arthur. You all have had him long enough while my tutoring has taken me from the palace for weeks. It is my turn.” He grinned and gestured as if to sweep his siblings away. Settling down crossed legged the prince pulled his younger brother into his lap. “Don’t lie to me Arthur. I’ve known you since I’ve drawn breath. I am not daft.” He frowned, eyes steely with determination.

“Fine, fine.” England said, sinking back further in the cushions. “Yes, I have been feeling off since midday, but that has been the status of myself since the rebellion. You know that.”

“Yes, but something has changed.” George countered, searching his face. 

“Yes…” England muttured. “I have come to a conclusion that I have no love for.”

“Which is?” George prompted. England swallowed thickly. Thinking it did one thing to him, but having to say it. Having to say it outloud, having to declare it for more than his thoughts alone made it just that much worse. It made his stomach role, his throat constrict and his tongue leaden. 

“I've lost him George.” he whispered. “I've lost him to this damned rebellion. And I don’t think that I shall ever get him back.” He gritted out between clenched teeth

“I’ve seen the battle reports. There is still an opportunity to save the southern colonies, even if New England is surely lost.” He searched England’s face and realization struck. “You mean the one that is like you? Arthur, I think that you are--”

“No!” England snapped, staring at the young man. “You did not see his face the last time we met! He has developed a hatred for me that I can only say is akin to when I destroyed Spain’s armadas! He has no love for me anymore, as family or even as a friend! Gone is the colony I raised!” He spat clenching his hands together in a last attempt to stay calm.

George listened, waiting for England to speak again. He even handed over the bottle of port. He was a good lad.

“I have not managed to crush his rebellion so he is lost to me forever!” The silence that followed his outburst was welcome and hated. England didn't know how long the silence went on before George spoke once more.

“Then you must go back.”

“Go back!?” England looked at the younger incredulously. “Why ever would I-”

“To finish it!” George said firmly as he resituated Octavius. “If we lose the American colonies, you need to be there so that you are the last thing he sees in the rebellion. Let him see your face and the anguish that he has given you! See the love and care that he spat upon! That he took advantage of your caring and has dragged your kindness through the mud! Let him know he ruined it and now he has lost it! And that it is all his damned fault!” 

“I...”

George’s words continued out in a flurry, passionate and loud. “Let him know that it was his brashness, his lack of understanding that tore him apart from you and that cracked the relationship between him and Canada. Let him realize that he is past the point of no return!”

“George...” England stared at the prince in silent awe. Of all things he had expected to come out of the boy's mouth that had certainly not been one of them.  “I-I’m not giving up I just-”

“So you're going back correct?” a new voice interrupted.

“I certainly think you should.” another voice joined the fray.

“Boys...” England looked up to see William and Frederick standing over them with their arms crossed. Identical expressions of determination on their faces. 

“Our older brother is right Arthur. Let him see. Let him know.” William pushed. 

“Letting someone know how you feel is not hurting them. It’s how you have relationships.” Frederick argued.

“And you don’t hurt family that way.” Charlotte stepped out from behind her brothers quietly before adding in a whisper. “Whether parents, siblings, friends or lovers. You just don’t do it.” 

“So where are you going Arthur!?” George pushed, eyes all settling on England. For a moment the empire went silent. Taking Octavius back he pressed a long kiss to the top of his small head before speaking. 

“I guess I shall be on the next boat back to New York.” he smiled softly. “You are right... no matter what he’s done he is still family.” England looked down, trying to take some comfort in that. 

***

_Night, September 5, 1781_

_Outside of Chesapeake Bay, Atlantic Ocean_

England frowned, listening to the reports as the captains came in to give the status of their ships. It was, in short, unacceptable. He’d returned to North America only days ago to find that his generals had been making a right mess of things. Clinton was holed up in New York, thinking that Washington was going to make a play for the city. Cornwallis had been ordered to build a deepwater port in the Chesapeake. France had gotten his ships into the mouth on August 30th trapping several British ships in the bay. No one knew where the newly formed Franco-American Army had gone. 

It had taken days to reinforce the fourteen ships that had tracked the French navy from the West Indies. Some ships had inadvertently been ordered back across the Atlantic, requiring more ships to chase them and bring them back. They’d been in action all day and now they had to take stock.

And now, the admirals were trying to lay blame on one another for a lack of clear orders which had caused Admiral Hood to stay at the rear instead of engaging the French when their line had drifted. 

“With this much damage we won’t be able to engage tomorrow. It’ll take the carpenters a day at least to make them battle worthy again.” said Admiral Graves. England wanted to throw something across the room. _Bloody unacceptable._ When was the last time he’d executed someone for incompetence? It was certainly a tempting prospect in the current moment.

Honestly, who had thought it would be beneficial to engage the French with the only the upper gun ports on the bow? A broadside was about weight, fill the other ship with lead and sink her. From France’s position he had been able to attack with all his guns. _Bloody bastard._ He was too fond of targeting masts and rigging. The _Terrible_ was practically dead in the water. 

“We should move back towards the Chesapeake, let the French go to sea.” Admiral Hood suggested.

“Disengage now? No. We will continue on the course and keep them in our sights.” Admiral Graves shot back. As the senior commander, he had final say. 

England rubbed at his face. They’d had several days of hard sailing and then had been in battle since early afternoon after getting into position for battle all morning. It had only been the sun leaving the sky that had caused the ships to break apart. He knew he had to have gotten some good hits on France, but overall the French ships were in better shape from the get go. Someone was getting punished for letting his navy get into this state of disrepair. He was trying really hard not to hit the men responsible for allowing his ships to be raked with fire from full French volleys. Gritting his teeth, England forced himself out of the cabin out onto the deck before he acted on any of the impulses.

He looked over at the coast that was just a misty line on the horizon. He’d spent decades looking at it as he drifted in and out on the tides visiting America. _Where are you?_ he thought at the coast. There had been no news of him whatsoever for months now. He was planning something, France had given him some fool idea. _May the sword of the parent never be stained with the blood of her child._ Those words seemed like a century ago when it was circulating around Parliament, essays, and newspapers. There was no avoiding it now.

_Fucking France._ England turned back, looking through the mist rising off the water. He knew he was out there. During a raking run on the _Princessa_ he’d seen him at the helm of the _Auguste._ If the man at the wheel hadn’t moved them away at the last moment they would have been able to cross swords. Shame at that. Double shame was that action had allowed France to destroy another ship. 

He could only hope that the admirals would change their minds. He wanted to bloody France. The thought of him made his blood boil. How dare he get involved in something that wasn’t his business?! The rage he’d felt when he’d first found out had tempered, hardened from molten rage to a sharp edge. He wanted to run it through the frog’s heart.

***

Days passed and they stayed on an eastern course. The coast grew farther and farther distant. England stood on the deck when he could, trying to keep the waves of nausea at bay. He’d never been seasick in his existence. _It’s not seasickness, America is doing something._ A cough rose up in his throat and he only managed to catch it in a handkerchief.

They had scuttled the _Terrible,_ a controversial decision since it was possible that it could have been repaired. Not that it mattered now that the ship was underwater. That was two days ago now. England walked back inside the admiral’s cabin, waiting to hear their decision.

The French had moved off, disappearing one by one. “Gentleman, we are in a truly lamentable state. I do not think it wise to press an attack on the French, even if we do outnumber them.” said the Admiral.

England simply nodded, upset at the decision roiling in his stomach. _Damn you, France._ He leaned on the rail looking out at the sea. West. America was out there somewhere and so was France. He could see his ships, some still close by.

“Is there something I can get you, sir?” It was one of the cabin boys, a younger son of a family sent to the sea. England thought for a moment. 

“No, there is not much anyone can do for me.”

***

_September 15, 1781_

“Lord Kirkland! A message has come aboard for you from the French ship.” said one of the young midshipman. England had been standing at the rail. He was picturing the _Terrible_ scuttled and drowning in the sea. It was a calculated loss. He leaned up from the rail and took the message, turning it over to look at the seal.

“Curse that French bastard.” he muttered under his breath. It was France’s seal. Of course the manipulative cur wouldn’t come aboard himself. England fancied that the nation’s neck would look nice with a rope around it. He ripped the seal off and looked at the letter, a frown forming on his lips.

_My dearest_ Angleterre _,_

_Regrettably I can not deliver this message in person and see your disagreeable face as you take in this news. First, let me say I was delighted to hear that you have sunk one of your own ships, although it is one less I will take from you when I declare my victory. Your dear ships are lovely prizes. I love giving them proper French names. As I run my hands over their masts and rails I imagine it is you there under my hands._

England snorted. Any bed they’d ever shared had been cold for years. It seemed an eternity ago when he’d coveted the Frenchman, fighting war after war trying to take his lands and bring him under his command. France had done the same. More’s the pity.

_Although, I suppose I must wait for the happy day when you bow your head to me. My dear boy is looking forward to it as well. He is quite fired up about seeing you on your knees. You should see the spirit that he possesses!_

England glared at the paper. What did he mean ‘my dear boy’? Surely America had not been stupid enough to let France... the idea made him ill. He would never have thought... he bit his tongue, the stinging pain pulling him from thoughts of the Frog with his hands all over the young colony.

_I’m sure you have noticed by now that my ships have turned away. We are going back to the Virginia Capes. I will grant you passage to land, for I invite you to an event._

England frowned, what one earth would he do that for? He kept reading.

_America and I await you on the hills around Yorktown. We intend to have your flag. You will not want to miss this,_ mon ami. _Freedom will ring. Your tyranny will no longer stand._

England could almost see France’s face as he read those words. The amused expression, the haughty mimic of America’s accent. The way he threw America’s words in England’s face. 

He looked up from the paper, not bothering to read over the rest, and up at the horizon trying to see the French ships through the mist rising off the ocean. They had indeed moved off, disappearing into the line of the coast. 

Yorktown... Damn it all! England crumpled the letter in his hands and ran into the admiral’s cabin, knocking aside the kitchen mate who was holding a tray full of food. Even as it tumbled onto the deck England didn’t stop, pushing aside papers to find the map of the Virginia coast. His eyes scanned over the location of where Cornwallis had been ordered to dig in. France had no doubt sailed back towards the Chesapeake Bay. With him controlling the mouth, there would be no way to resupply Cornwallis should he be attacked by land.

Where America and his army were became immediately clear. France was taking Cornwallis from the sea. America was going to take him by land. And Clinton was sitting up in New York expecting that decoy army to attack. _Bloody bastards!_

“Get me ink and paper immediately, I need to send a dispatch to General Clinton.” He scrawled a hasty note, not worrying about straight lines or even tidy script. This was a message of desperation at any case.

America and France were going to try and break his back in the south, the only colonies he may have been able to salvage. He’d come here to talk to him, to give him one last chance. He’d been able to acknowledge that America would never live quietly in his house again, but to wrest all of the British American colonies? Unfathomable.

And yet, the thirteen clocks were striking at once.

“You!” England turned to the Lieutenant that was current commander of this ship after the captain had been laid low by a cannon blast. The young man blanched. “You will get me as near to shore as possible and as quickly as it can be done.”


	19. The Storm Broke the Bow

September 28, 1781  
Hills surrounding Yorktown, Virginia

Night had fallen and America wrapped up in his blanket. He was at the edge of the sleeping army, they’d been ordered not to pitch their tents because they wouldn’t be staying in this position. He pulled the edges of the blanket tighter around his shoulders and tried to entertain the idea of sleep. America knew he would need it, this wasn’t going to be easy, but no matter what he told himself sleep evaded him. 

They’d been marching for the last month, sending false reports alongside real ones so that the British Army in New York would have no idea what they were planning. The stop in Philadelphia had been both grand and disappointing when some of his army threatened to leave. He couldn’t blame them really, they did need the money. It was nice of France’s General Rochambeau to loan General Washington the Spanish gold. Whispers of French generosity amongst his troops had certainly fixed some of the problems they’d been having. America had a little bit more confidence in him. France himself had shown up a few days ago announcing that his maneuver in the Chesapeake was complete. He’d seen England even. He was back. He had to be down there in the town, no doubt drinking wine with his generals.

He glanced away from Yorktown and towards the French army. They were stationed in the position on the left. Their armies had been joined by other positions. They may have left the north with seven thousand men, but now they numbered at least 18,000. There were only nine thousand British troops in the town. The odds were in his favor.

“Can’t sleep?” America looked up to see France standing there in his white uniform. France was so meticulous about it that his uniform didn’t show a speck of dirt even though they’d ridden from Williamsburg that morning. 

“No. Do you think it will work, Washington’s plan?”

“To bombard England into submission? I believe it will, he is well dug in, but no one can last forever when they can’t be resupplied. He doesn’t have the ability to run my blockade. His navy is not the grandest yet, despite his ambitions.”

“Hmmm.” America looked down over the hill, wondering what England was thinking. He had to know they were out here, although he didn’t know their numbers yet. He would learn that truth in the morning. Recognize me. If you still don’t believe I’m equal to you I’m going to prove it.

“If you don’t intend to sleep you could join me in my bedroll?” France said, elbowing America in the side.

America laughed. “I’m afraid your gift of Spanish gold isn’t enough to earn my amorous thanks.”

“You wound me, Amerique, acting like I am trying to buy your virtue.” France offered a theatrical pout that made America laugh again. Even France chuckled after a moment.

“I think I need to save my virtue for the battlefield.”

France reached over and patted him on the head. “Just be sure you don’t spend it all. I need you to stay focused until we break him.” America shrugged out from under his hand. 

“Don’t worry about that.” he replied. France went back to his troops and America was left staring into the darkness at the lights down near the river. 

I’m coming England. This is the end.

***

October 1, 1781  
American Redoubt

“Jones, did you hear?” America looked up from positioning a log into place. Cornwallis had called the British troops back from the outer defenses, giving America and France plenty of time to occupy them and bringing their cannons up. The forests surrounding them rang with axes as more trees were felled for the earthworks. England could fire as many shots as he wanted, he was going to get answered two cannon for every one of his.

“What?” 

“Soldiers are deserting from behind the British line. They’re desperate.” The soldier went on to talk about some of the actions they’d taken. Rationing food. Slaughtering livestock and horses to spare the grain. They were buckling down for a long fight. “The command thinks Clinton will be able to bring down reinforcements.”

“They can try all they like.” said France, coming up behind him. The soldier saluted and moved off, sharing the news with the rest of the line. France looked more battered that he had before the battle. His troops had been involved in a two hour skirmish with the British on the last remaining redoubt. 

“Did you see England?”

“Sadly, no. I have a feeling he is planning something.”

“Incoming!” A cannonball struck the ground, more cannons boomed. The British had been firing all day, trying to keep the earthworks from being constructed. Their range just wasn’t quite there.

“How is the plan coming?”

“Just a few more days, I think. Washington says he’s going to do it. We just have to keep them busy until then.”

***

“Matthew.” England smiled, wide as the colony pushed into the house that Cornwallis and England had claimed, pouring over missives and discussing battle plans. The British troops had arrived in Yorktown days ago. When the notice came that England wanted him at his side for the battle he had been a few days off by horseback. He had ridden the poor beast hard to get here in time. England had been getting progressively worse as the war had continued and to receive such a request Canada had feared the worst. Now seeing England his fears had been confirmed, though he thanked the heavens for his overactive imagination. He had imagined England barely able to move, sick on some bedroll, babbling at the sky, not discussing siege tactics with Cornwallis over a pint of warm ale. 

“Lord Kirkland I have just arrived.” the canadian nation announced quietly, taking the chair that England pointed towards.

“Sit, sit. I was becoming nervous when you did not arrive. But I can be at ease now. “England clasped his hands together, leaning back in his chair. “I trust you had no complications getting here?”

“No.” Canada shook his head.

“Good, good.” England nodded. “Now just a moment, Charles and I just need to finish this bit and I shall take you to get something to eat. Sound alright?” England turned back towards the general sharply, immediately berating the man. Canada took this moment to watch the empire. Arthur was jittery, nervous. The normally collected English nation drummed his fingers, shuffling and reshuffling stacks of papers. Bright green eyes darted around the tent, and he kept touching the back of his neck as if he felt eyes upon his back. The nation seemed uncomfortable in his own skin. It was a side of Arthur that Matthew was unfamiliar with, although he was not surprised upon seeing it. Throughout the entirety of his brothers revolution Canada found himself privy to sides of Arthur he had never seen before. It had been unsettling at first. But now, he just expected it. 

Leaning back in his own chair Canada remained silent, observing Arthur scan the papers around him. And once again a traitorous thought rose to the surface of Canada’s mind, one that had continued to rear it’s ugly head over the past couple of months. Was England still fighting against America? Was that truly still his mindset? Or was England now fighting himself, his own reservations and opinions?

***

October 2  
Outside Yorktown

England frowned, leaning over to look at the drawing laid out in the center of the dining room table. He was outnumbered two to one by France and America’s combined forces, but he’d faced worse odds before. The biggest problem was that he’d been penned in between their position, the river, and the ocean. Normally, the second two wouldn’t be the worst bit, but damn France was still holding the mouth of the bay. Some of his ships were trapped upriver, by they weren’t fast enough to escape the French before they would be destroyed. He rubbed at his cheek with the feather end of the quill pen, absentmindedly marking a walnut ink streak across his cheek. 

“What are you thinking?” said the man across from him. It was growing dark and many of the other officers were beginning to retire. England looked at him, Ross was his name, Major Alexander Ross. 

“We’re going to need supplies. Clinton is no doubt sending reinforcements, we just need to hold until then.” England tossed the quill onto the table, watching the ink spatter like drops of blood. 

“We could send out Colonel Tarleton. His dragoons could protect some infantrymen for forage. The Americans haven’t cut down all of the trees. Better yet, if we can dislodge a position we may be able to claim some of their own supplies for ourselves.”

England thought. Tarleton, Banastre Tarleton, was twenty-seven years old and had gotten a notorious reputation amongst America’s army for the Battle of Waxhaws in South Carolina. The incident after the battle wasn’t entirely the man’s fault, despite the way America’s newspapers were reporting it. The official report said that his men had thought him dead after an errant shot from the American side and took revenge on the wounded Continentals. It was disgraceful, but the man had also been involved in capturing General Lee. Tarleton’s Raiders would send a message at any rate.

“Yes, I will be accompanying the foraging party.” England said.

“Is that wise, my lord?” England raised a brow at him and the man flushed. “I mean, of course, I will have them prepare you a horse.” The man stood and bowed before leaving the room. England picked up his red coat from where it was draped over the back of a chair. He examined his reflection in a silver bowl that leaned on the mantle over the fire. He rubbed at the mark he’d made on his face and took in his appearance. It was how he would want to be seen. Imperious. In control. Not a single show that everything inside felt like it was coming down one cannon ball at a time.

They rode out after dark, his own guns pounding and firing into American and French position. They would stage in Gloucester, going out from there. Guns fired back. Pops and booms and flashes in the night. The river crossing went smoothly enough. He still had enough firepower to point at the river to keep France’s ships from coming too close. He would try it though, England could feel the anticipation of France’s next move in his stomach. They’d known each other too long not to guess. America... what was he doing though?

The location was still secure, meeting with the infantry that was still holding Gloucester. “There’s been some activity spotted by our scouts, my lord, but we don’t have good counts.”

“Any estimates of cavalry, units?” asked Colonel Tarleton. The man shook his head, but pointed at the sketch of the estimated locations of the American and French lines. They were on this side of the river too. England bit his tongue. America had been listening when he’d taught him siege tactics. “We’ll have to risk it.”

“I agree.” England said. Honestly, he couldn’t bear the thought of just sitting and waiting. They needed supplies, anyway. If he could confront America and France while he was at it, he would be even happier. England tried to picture what he would do if America was hiding out there and he had a chance. His mind went blank at that thought and he shook his head. He couldn’t be distracted. They would mount up and get ready.

They moved as quietly as they could, hoping to slip through unnoticed. If his dragoons and infantry could come around their backs all the better. When the fight began England couldn’t even figure out what had happened at first. Then he saw them, white coats. 

France! “Are you here, you bloody bastard! Come and face me!” he shouted over the noise of shots and the drums pounding out orders. The musket butt caught him on his blind side, knocking him from the back of his horse. 

“You were looking for me, mon cher?” he said, England rolling so that France’s bayonet stabbed nothing but dirt. He pulled back as England drew his cavalry sabre. 

“You are going to be sorry for this, Frog!” France just smiled, taking another thrust at England’s middle and England knocked him aside. Thrust, parry, England didn’t have time for words as sheer rage filled him for the nation in front of him. He grinned when caught France across right above the knee, red blood spilling over the white of his breeches. France fell, but aimed his musket butt at England’s legs and while trying to sidestep England slipped on a fallen soldier, the musket hit him in the hip, sending a numbing pain down one side.

France got unsteadily to his feet, grinning. “Your drums are sounding retreat.”

Damn it all, they were. France caught the reins of a horse and swung himself into the saddle to ride back to his own position. England pushed himself to his feet, he couldn’t put any weight on the leg France had struck. Damn you to hell, Frog. “You’ll be sorry when this is over, France, mark my words!” 

France turned in his saddle. England could see the look of pity on his face. That made him even angrier. Not me, the look said. England swallowed, and turned back to retreat with the rest. His hip was numb, but soon enough he could feel a little and one of the cavalry pulled up beside him to pull him onto the back of their saddle. 

Not me. 

***

October 6  
Between the American and British Lines

It was dark, but America knew he just needed to keep moving. The storm had rolled in obscuring the sky. At first, the cannonballs flying overhead made him flinch, but not it was just a background to the hushed conversations and the sound of hundreds of shovels digging a trench. The British were still firing at where they’d last seen the American line.

America looked over the edge. France was up there with the rest that weren’t working down here. A show of activity, a false target. America grinned and got back to work. They had 2000 yards to dig before the sun came up and gave away the game. The weather was a boon, the weak moonlight blocked making them invisible to the sentries.

England was in for a surprise in the morning!

A loud whistling filled America’s ears and a cannon ball struck the earth, sending a spray of dirt on his position. Maybe it was just luck, America thought. There was no way they knew they were out here!

Another blast sent more soil flying from elsewhere down the trench. Everyone kept to their orders to be quiet. America tossed another pile of dirt out of the way. It was too accurate to just be guess work. Who had told?!

America tossed down the shovel, intending to get back to the command. He nearly collided with France as he pulled himself up on the edge. France shoved him back into the protection of the dirt. “France! What’s going on?”

“Someone must have defected, told them where we are.” France swore a string of expletives that America couldn’t follow.

“Well, I’m not backing down! England will have to do more than that to try and scare me.” He knelt down, reaching for his shovel that he’d dropped. Straightening up he said, “I better--”

France pushed him in the center of his chest until America’s back was pressed into the earthen wall. His mouth was warm against America’s and for a moment America couldn’t think. By the time he’d processed what was happening France had pulled away. “For luck, mon lapin, there’s never enough of it to go around. I’ll try to keep our dear Angleterre from getting too accurate with his aim.” He turned and climbed back out of the trench, leaving America clutching his shovel.

“For luck.” America said, rolling his eyes. In the flash of a mortar he could glimpse France running back towards the redoubts. The combination of the unexpected kiss and the bombardment wiped any exhaustion from his body. He laughed. “You won’t take me by surprise next time, France.” he said in the other nation’s direction. 

He could feel it now. England was closer than he’d been in so many long months. What would it feel like to see him again? Be close enough to touch him? He practiced what he wanted to say in his head. Freedom. Independence. There was so much he still had to say.

***

October 10

Why had he been so cocky? So certain of his success that day? Just because he had information did not mean he had it all. The memory regarding his response to the spy before the siege wedged itself in his mind and stuck.

“And you managed to get all of this on your own?” England looked up from the reports with a look surprise, awe filling his chest. When Clinton had approached him during supper with espionage reports he had not expected much. A little notes here and there from women who had snuck over the lines. Women made the best spies, often under the radar and willing to try many things in the efforts to succeed. But those who nearly got caught often swallowed their notes or tossed them and what reports the network received were done from memory. So when Clinton had dropped a hefty roll of parchment on his table England had been bewildered. His surprise had continue when he realized that he had no recognition of the tidy scrawl. 

“All the way down to the size of their cannon balls, sir.”Ann smiled, a smidge of well deserved pride in her voice. “I snuck straight into the camp as a peddler and the rebel officers gave me no mind as I stitched their trousers and coats. They had such a large demand for fixing that my quill and parchment went completely unnoticed beneath the weight of my workload. The young woman clasped her hands at the small of her back. 

“That is brilliant.” England praised, looking back down at the papers. With the exception of himself , the generals in attendance and a few other high ranking officers few knew her true name. Those in the spy network knew her by the alias Mrs. Barnes. That coupled with her gender made her a fantastic spy. Men seemed to think women were incapable of understanding war tactics and gave little thought to female peddlers that made their way around the war camps. It was a shame really, he mused, that one of God’s own creations was thought so little of in their intelligence capacity. The women had only been sent off with one days training, five guineas to purchase a peddler's back and a prayer. And now he had all of this, all this insight into America’s plans. “God is with us on this day.” he smiled ‘as are the gods and goddesses’ he kept the last thought to himself. England had become a christian nation, but he could still sense the people who followed the old religion. They were out there somewhere. 

“Lord Kirkland?”

“We will win.” England handed the papers back to Clinton with pride. “There is no way with our numbers, this information and our just effort that this battle will not be a success. A success for the crown.” He looked at the humans surrounding him in the tent. His people who had not lost their minds, unlike those people who opposed him. “Yorktown is ours!”

He had said it all so confidently, he had jinxed himself. That was the only reason, the only reason that he could be losing now. It made no sense otherwise, they had so many advantages. Bate’s information should have made the siege an easy victory. But when he had woke ill that morning, unease had settled over him like a heavy cloak. Maybe the divine were punishing him for his pride, for his flippant disregard of their hand in his success and failure. That was it. For now he was certain that the heavens rang with their laughter at his folly. Laughing at him as he spewed his breakfast across the ground at his feet.

“I trust you.” England said firmly, jerking out of his group, leaving Clinton behind. It was like he was once more on the ocean, yet had not earned his sea legs. He stumbled forward raking his hands through his hair. “I will go to Cornwallis. I need to go to him, to my ships.”

All of that had happened just a mere month ago, yet it felt like so much longer. Now he wasn’t so certain at his decision. Maybe he should have stayed with Clinton then he wouldn't have been here to see all of this, this disaster. How was it possible, possible that his Navy, the greatest Navy in the entire world was being burned. 

“I don’t have a choice Arthur. If we don’t burn them then they will take them.” Cornwallis gasped as he crested the hill that overlooked the harbor, where England stood horrified. An explosion shuddered the air and Cornwallis whipped around as a house went up in flames, the explosion coming from what one could only guess was a casket of powder. “Fuck…” Cornwallis swore “They blew up my bloody house,”

“Something has gone wrong.” England turned as another ship caught a flame, a look of panic etched into his features. It was like when one jumped from a height, and their stomach jumped into their throat. England gasped, letting it out in a shuddering wheeze. Wiping the back of his hand across his mouth he cringed at the stomach bile that stung his throat and filled his nostrils with its acidic stench.

“Arthur!?” Cornwallis barked grabbing the country by the arm as the nation wobbled forward beginning to shout. The general watched with concern as the nation grabbed his hand, eyes sliding shut. Where had he gone wrong. For a brief moment it was like an outside force was covering his ears with satin. His senses temporarily cut off, similar to when he had lost the New England colonies. What was going on? His navy was unstoppable, it had crushed enemies for years, stopping Spain and France from victory. To this day he swore that he could still see pieces of the Spanish Armada washing up on the shores of his land. His navy that had seen him to many victories. Admiral Sir John Hawkins would be turning in his grave

“We are losing our ships. My ships. They are sinking, too fast. Too fast to be because of rebel enemy attacks.” He shook his head violently. “Not possible. No. no. America does not have the power-Cornwallis.” His stomach dropped, causing him to gag. No, America nor even France had the power or gall to sink his ships that quickly. It was not within their mentality. However, it was within Cornwallis’s mentality. “Cornwallis is sinking my ships. Something has gone wrong...he is sinking our ships.” his eyes widened “We must be losing. Cornwallis you are failing.” He stared at the smoke, the fire licking and crunching its way through his ships. The rebels were closer than he had thought “If our navy falls then all hope is lost.” he whispered. 

***

October 15  
American Redoubt

“Does everyone understand the plan?” England looked at the group of men huddled around him. Tugging at his collar he crossed his arms, a futile attempt to keep warm as the fall air bit through his uniform. It wasn’t cold enough to warrant a full winter uniform without sweating, which would lead to more problems, but it was just cold enough to cause want for a coat. “Well, head out then.” he ordered. They couldn’t risk carrying torches, this left them with the light of the moon, a aid and an assailant. Too much cloud cover and men could trip and hurt themselves, or they could miss an enemy scout. Too little cloud cover and the enemy would see them coming. Feeling his way through the tall grass, dead with the chill of oncoming winter. England was left with a sense of deja vu. Placing his feet carefully he felt the mud swell up around his boots, the land soft from the fall rain that had been soaking the Virginia colony. He would not be surprised if it began to rain on them while they performed their task.  
Crouching low, looking for enemies amongst tall grass as they moved in to sabotage their opponent. It was not all the different from he had been forced to defend his people against Roma Antiqua. Taking a deep breath he cleared his mind, it was stupid to get distracted at a time like this. Before long England felt a tug at his sleeve, glancing to his right he watched one of the men gesture wildly. They had reached the cannons. Signaling to the men behind him he gestured for them to move forward. A sense of nervousness welled within his chest that always seemed to accompany being within enemy territory. He watched as each of the men unraveled the cloth from the iron spikes tucked beneath their arms. All they needed to do was lodge them into the touch holes and they could get back to safety.

“Hell.” a voice swore behind him. 

“Shut up, what the hell?” England hissed, turning to glare at the man who had spoken. Did the fool not know what it meant to be caught in enemy territory?

“Someone's coming!” the man breathed and as if one body the group tensed. Several eyes fell upon England, waiting for orders. Mind raising he began to weigh possible outcomes, and lines of escape. There wasn’t much. Flattening his hand he motioned downwards. One by one, the men crouched, bellies slick with mud as they pressed against it. Getting down to his knees before laying himself flat England brushed at the cold muck that clung to his chin, oozing up around his body. The camp followers would have a hell of a time cleaning these uniforms. Swallowing he steadied his breath, listening to the sound of footsteps grow closer. There had been no shouting yet, maybe they would-

***

America had nearly dozed off at his position at the cannon. He’d sat down against the wheel hours ago, ducking down with everyone else when the British guns had all been turned on their position. He hadn’t wanted to leave. It wouldn’t have been right to just abandon his men. He frowned when the first raindrops struck his face. That meant fog was going to rise off the river. England might try something. France had run the British off the last outpost the day before, between them they owned the entire hillside. England only had Yorktown left.

He yawned, stretching, picking up his musket so it wouldn’t get wet. It wasn’t raining hard yet, as long as the powder stayed dry it would still be possible to fire it. He stood up, checking to make sure the powder for the cannon was dry as well. The bombardment would begin again in the morning. He couldn’t let France get in all the good shots, he’d bet him a bottle of whiskey after all. 

“Pssst.” said one of the men near the wall, waving America over, “Do you see that too?” America leaned up, just poking his head over the edge of the redoubt. America’s eyes widened.

“Redcoats. Yeah, I see them.” He knew England was going to try something. Quickly, more men were brought to the edge of the earthen wall, leaning up over. The order to fire roared loud in his ears as a volley of musket fire was poured into the approaching force.

***

“The enemy have infiltrated the camp!” a voice shouted and England groaned. 

“For the love of the Queen.” He spat lunging to his feet. “Retreat!” he shouted. It was like a flock of birds taking flight as his three-hundred and fifty men began to scatter. The muscles of his thighs protested and he took off at a run. It had been cold sneaking through the grass, then freezing as they took a dip in the silt. And now being forced to run, he would be sore in the morning. Muscles burning and the air in his lungs sharp, a thrill of adrenaline zipped through his veins at the sound of gunfire. This was a tad more difficult than he remembered, he leapt sideways when a bullet nearly hit his right foot. Between the emotional strain and the illness he had been battling for the last couple of years maybe he really should take it easy, as Clinton suggested. Pumping his arms faster as a bullet skimmed his shoulder he looked skyward as patches of moonlight began to dance across his groups escape. He snorted, this certainly was his luck. It seemed as if the moon wanted to watch, that she was tired of the clouds obscuring her view, like they were some discourteous womens hat at the Globe. Yes, there was his luck. 

Swearing he hit the ground full force as his ankle rolled, a sharp pain reverberating through his leg. It seemed as if the moon had gotten her way and the clouds were suddenly gone. Pushing up with his arms he felt his fingers begin to numb, stark white against the mud. And then just as she had appeared the moon vanished and the tell tale drops of rain began to poke the ground, a few at a time and then the clouds were sobbing. Pushing furiously at his bangs as they stuck to his forehead and blocked his vision he wobbled to his feet, beginning a lurching run. He was suddenly glad for the downpour for he only made it a few feet before he fell once again. Gasping for breath he clutched his gun tightly in his hands. His men were ahead of him, someone would turn back once they realized that he was gone. Using his musket to hoist himself up he struggled to his feet. Cold, exhausting and in pain. Honestly, that was his luck. The splashing of feet caught his attention. Whirling around haphazardly he raised his gun as he watched the blurry outline of a figure grow closer. 

***

At first, part of the line was startled when the British rushed forward before falling back. Some of them were determined to spike the cannons despite the fact they’d been seen. Most of them, however, were going in the other direction. A few of the militia jumped over the edge of the redoubt to chase them. America could even see a flash of white, the French were closing in on one side too. 

One of the heads looked familiar. Feelings curled in his stomach as he ran forward, stopping a few feet from the man’s back. “England!” He shouted, raising his musket. 

It was him. England turned, eyes widening. America gripped his musket harder, bracing it against his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he shouted to be heard over the pops and shouts of the other soldiers, “but, I’m choosing freedom!” He realized he’d never actually said it to England’s face. He grit his teeth. 

***

England felt his mouth drop open, not in shock, but rather in disbelief. “You're sorry? You’re fucking sorry?!” England breathed. “What….” his hands tightened on the gun, finger resting on the trigger. It was as if he was stuck inside a well, all sounds around him were muffled, yet his and America’s shouts seemed to echo about, reverberating and bouncing off imaginary stone. His feet were moving before he could even register what was happening. A shout of rage crawled its way up his throat as he lunged forward, thrusting his bayonet. The screech of metal hitting wood split the air, the younger nation grasped his musket like a stave, struggling to keep England at bay. America’s musket flew from his hands to hit the mud behind England. Panting he watched as the expression shifted from resolution to shock. What had happened? What had happened to the child he had raised? He, he couldn’t do it. He wasn’t certain what hit the dirt first, his knees or his musket. His ankle throbbed in relief as he dropped to the mud, once brightly colored clothes dulled by layers of muck, as if representing the wilting of his heart as it saturated itself in realization. 

He gaped, like a fish out of water, voice breaking numerous times before the words finally slumped out of his throat “I can’t do it...I can’t do it you bloody fool.” A crushing sense of defeat nearly forced him deeper into the mud as sobs began to wrack their way through his body. Trembling he buried his face within his hands “Dammit, why dammit!”

***

“England...” America stared at him, heart still pounding. He’d seen it England’s eyes, he’d wanted to hurt him. His finger had been on the trigger. The elation he’d been feeling for the moment before he’d lost control of his weapon, had changed. He’d imagined this moment for so long, but it had never gone like this... 

It seemed like an entire other life now, for the humans it had been several. It had been a sunny day and he’d been out playing leaving England to his work inside. He’d grown tired, sitting down at the top of a hill and cradling the ball he’d been playing with in his lap. Laying his arms across it he’d been looking out at all the lands to the west, wondering what was out there. 

“America.”

“England!” he said, grinning up at him. 

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to explore out there!” He pointed and England looked.

“Well, not today I hope.” England offered him a hand. “Let’s go home.” 

America had smiled, reaching out and taking it, letting England pull him to his feet. But now... England was the one on the ground. “England... you used to be...”

What? America wasn’t sure what he wanted to say. England had been so many things once upon a time. He was once his whole world, just waiting for him to come back. Through starvation and plenty and new inventions and new discoveries, England had been there. 

“You used to be...” Everything. It didn’t come out of his mouth, though, instead the words, “... so big.” He felt like he was floating, as though he were looking on the scene from above. He needed to ground himself, somehow. He fell to his knees too, not caring that the puddles were starting to form around them and muskets still popped over their heads. 

He reached out, putting a hand on England’s arm. “I’m taking my independence. It doesn’t have to be like this anymore. You’re not... we aren’t... we’re...” His tongue twisted over all of the words. Everything he thought he would say when he met England on the battlefield disappeared. He bit his tongue. Damn it! He didn’t want his voice to start shaking!

***

He recoiled, slapping the boy’s hand off his arm, unbidden a hysterical laugh left his mouth. “Don’t touch me!” Yanking his head up he screamed into America’s face “Don’t fucking touch me!” he scrambled backwards, biting back a yelp as he jostled his foot, shaking his head violently. “You lost that right! Never again! You have betrayed your country! You-you have betrayed me!” rage began to mix with his sorrow and he spit on the ground before viciously snarling at the boy “That’s what I think of, you taking your independence! It was never yours to take you bloody take you selfish prat! As if you didn’t have freedom! You petulant child! You loveless boy!” Hot tears rolled down his face, a stark contrast to the rain pelting his skin. “And now you have proclaimed to the world your hate for me!” He gestured wildly at his musket “So take it! There! Put the gun to my head and pull the trigger! Rid yourself of the tyrant you claim that I am!”

***

America’s eyes widened, feeling the emotions well up in his own chest, until tears were falling down his cheeks as well. “Do you still not get it?! You betrayed me first! You... you... you don’t see me at all! You act like I looked away, but it was you! How many times did you look away, England, huh!? You call me loveless...” All I ever did was love you, everyone else saw it, why couldn’t you?! 

He shook his head, already humiliated enough. England was losing this field. It was over. America dragged the musket closer to him and used it to push himself up. America just looked down at him, shaking his head.

“You think you’re so important... I’m taking my independence and you don’t get to have a say anymore.” He put his hands on England’s musket and put his strength into bending it, the wood cracked, the musket barrel bent. He walked around him to pick up his own musket. Without another word he took his weapon back to the redoubt, not looking back at all.

***  
October 17  
Inside Yorktown

It was like silence personified, as if it had grown a fist and now held the camp within its grasp. No one spoke, not even a cough nor the whinny of a horse disobeyed its order. England stood still, silent as he watched the man grab a white flag. A constant drizzle seemed to manifest the uncomfortable feeling of the situation. Rain in some amount or another had continued to persist since that night. Even now, over the troops, England’s generals and this original drummer it refused to let up. His orders, to bring the flag of surrender to the American rebels. The man shifted his drummer's straps uncomfortably over his shoulders. To send a noncombatant over enemy lines, carrying that flag was a real sign of surrender. If England had his way, then he would have nothing to do with this display. It made him sick as if he had eaten rotten fruit or meat past its days. He didn’t want to be here, to witness this. It was miserable. As Cornwallis turned to look at him all he could do was nod. He knew, was aware that the men and his officers were looking for some kind of speech, something to lift their hearts in the face of their failure. But England couldn’t do it. Today he did not have the strength in himself to lie, to create a falsehood that would lessen the dread in their hearts. England didn’t forgive them for this failure. Turning his back on the scene, he headed for this tent. He didn’t forgive himself for this failure.

***

“And this is a day that I will never forget,” Francis commented breathlessly, getting up from his stool. Ever since America had come back that night, refusing to talk, silent on his sleeping roll Francis knew it was only a matter of time. And he had been right. Into camp strode two of his own soldiers, guiding a blindfolded man who sported a white flag and a fistful of missives. He couldn't stop the laughter of success that rose within his chest, causing America to turn and look in the same direction. “America look. This is what the beginnings of real surrender look like.” he watched the young colony, no, the young nation stand up, an expression of surprise widening ocean colored eyes. This, this was the beginning of the end.

***

October 19  
The Moore House - Behind the Franco-American Lines

America stepped into the room before France, the older nation pausing to pull the door shut behind him. The room was simple, a parlor, most of the furniture stripped bare, all the ornamentation gone. America didn’t see any of it, just England seated in a chair by the fire. His skin was milk white, the skin beneath his eyes looked bruised. He didn’t look up when they entered, his gaze focused away, staring into the fire that flickered in the heart. He looked ancient sitting there, but also younger than America had ever seen him. By a human’s reckoning, England was a young man, only a few years beyond America’s boyish lankiness. America swallowed and took a step forward. France put an arm out in front of him, stopping him. 

“Wait.” he said.

“For what?” America asked.

“When the humans finish their negotiations we’ll know.” France pointed at one of the other chairs. “Canada, mon petit, why don’t you find something for all of us to drink.” America saw him now, Canada hovering like a ghost near England’s chair. Canada looked like he would have preferred to remain unnoticed. He nodded at France’s request and disappeared through the door.

The room descended into silence, only the murmur of the humans in the next room creating any sound. America could picture them, an array of blue, white, and red coats surrounding the small dining table to make sure all of the articles of surrender were approved. They were making the decisions of how the final surrender would proceed. America took a seat, his focus back on England.

He was still, only small movement betraying him. A twitch of his cheek, or the deliberate opening and closing of his eyes. America glanced at France as he drummed his fingers on the small tea table that was placed at the center of the chairs. His brow was furrowed and any good humor gone. It was a cold look. An involuntary shiver went up America’s spine. France had looked at him that way before, and it had only been surprise that had spared him.

“This is not how I thought you would be.” France said, watching England. Canada stepped into America’s line of sight, clutching some glasses and a bottle of wine. Burning with anxious energy, America stood up to help him at the sideboard. England said nothing.

Shoulder to shoulder with Canada, America whispered, “What’s wrong with him?” Canada looked at him, grabbing the bottle out of America’s hand when it rattled against the rim of the cup he was holding.

“What do you think?” Canada poured the four cups and left one by America, delivering on e to France and carrying the other two to the side where England sat. America turned, leaning against the wall. Canada’s body blocked his view as he held out the cup to England. Still, the British nation didn’t move.

America watched, eyes widening, as Canada knelt down, putting himself in England’s line of sight. England’s blank expression shifted as he focused on Canada. “Matthew?”

“Do you remember what has happened? Why we’re here?” Canada asked, putting his hand on England’s arm as if to ground him to the earth.

“Mon dieu!” France said, his chair scraping against the floor as he stood up. “What is wrong with you?” England flinched, lifting his head and looking at France. His brow furrowed.

“You have some nerve.” England said, nearly stepping on Canada as he got out of his chair. He slammed his hands on the table. “What part of any of this bloody business involved you?! If you had kept your fat nose out of it... he would never have...”

“How delightful that you refer to America as though he were not here. The dear boy worked so hard for this moment and still you do not acknowledge him?” France said, leaning across the table. “You must have forgotten what defeat feels, my poor Angleterre.” France reached out a hand and patted England on the head as if he were a small boy.

England smacked his hand away and he muttered darkly under his breath.

“Yes, that was the language you spoke back then.” France sneered. England launched himself over the table, tackling France to the ground. America jumped forward to try and get in between them as Canada grabbed England around the waist hauling him back. France shot America a dirty look, but didn’t make any attempt to go after England again. America turned to see England double over the table, a series of wracking coughs shaking his body. Canada stood by nervously, as though every inch of him was ready to catch England should he fall.

Was this the illness Canada had told him about? The one blamed on him? America went to pick up one of the spilled glasses, refilling it and standing on England's other side. “Here.” he said. England didn’t look at him, just took a shaky breath and a new round of coughing.

The door swung open, one of America’s men stepping inside. “It is over. The terms have been agree.” America felt as though a knot in his chest loosened, he felt lightheaded. He lay a hand on the table to steady himself. England turned his head, looking at it. The world narrowed. America didn’t care that France was here, nor Canada. “Do you hear that, England?” he said. “I won. It’s over.”

“America...” said Canada.

“Shut up.” America said, raising his eyes to Canada’s face. He was pale. His brow furrowed, but he didn’t say another word. America jumped at a movement near his hand. England was touching him, his fingers sliding across the back of America’s hand. Slowly, America put his palm up, allowing England’s touch to ghost over his skin. England’s fingers slid below the edge of his sleeve. The pressure increased on his wrist, as though he were feeling the flutter of America’s pulse. America held his breath. Would England remember what had passed between them that night in Philadelphia? England’s face turned thoughtful, his hand firm on America’s. His gaze lifted, but didn’t go any higher than America’s chin. He took a breath and turned away, the loss of his hand leaving a tingling sensation on America’s skin.

“As the terms have been decided France, I offer you my sword.” America turned, frustration curling in his stomach. France met his gaze for a moment before turning to England. 

“I am not the one you are surrendering to today.” France stepped forward, grasping England by the upper arm and forcing him to face America. “The victory belongs to the United States of America. You must surrender to him.”

For an agonizing minute, England looked at every part of America except his face. America wanted him to look, to see the strength to stand on his own. When he finally did look at him, America felt his heart plummet to the floor. England was looking through him. “I offer you congratulations on your victory over The United Kingdom of Great Britain, United States of America.” His voice was wooden, and the way he said America’s name grated on his skin.

America licked his lips, trying to bring some moisture back into his mouth. England’s eyes settled on his mouth. “I accept your surrender.”

England’s eyes flicked up to his one last time, his expression unreadable. Without another word, England turned on his heel and strode out. Canada gave him one last look and then followed.

America didn’t realize how tightly he was wound until France clapped a hand on his shoulder. America tried to relax, his balled fists loosening. “Well done, America.”

It didn’t feel well done, America thought. Not at all.


	20. Freedom and Consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The time has arrived. They must come together to sign the Treaty of Paris and make America's independence official. What does that mean for their future?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: Attempted suicide (not graphic), references (also not graphic, just mention that it was attempted) throughout.
> 
> Also: England failing at being monogamous and lots of angst. (But don't worry, there's some hope at the end!)

_August 1783_

_London, England_

England leaned over the table, quill in his hand, not worrying about the ink drying on the nib or the drops that it had left on the paper. He dipped the pen once more, watching the brown liquid swirl and stain the shaft of what was once a feather. Once something that carried a bird. Now it was a tool, something unliving, something to be discarded when it was no longer useful. 

He put the sharp edge to the paper and began.

_People wanted to know. It was evident. People wanted to know what it felt like when he left me. However, the words wouldn’t come out. They were indescribable. Yet, through a pen to paper it is like I am floating and somebody else was writing exactly what I couldn’t say:_

_I can describe my feelings in two words - death and pain. Everything hurts and I wait for that sweet caress that offers a void of nothingness, a void of unnamable relief. My head is pounding from the endless tears that I have cried. Throbbing with the thoughts of what ifs, I should haves, and beratements of the disgusting unlovable creature that I have become. My eyes feel like sandpaper, every time I blink, tear ducts too far spent to do their assigned job. My jaw, sore from clenching in efforts of keeping appearance in public places. A crick in my neck from the dropping of my head when my jaw fails to keep face, if it is going to happen, it is better to hide it. Shoulders, aching from the heaving of sobs and the mental weight of what has come to pass. Arms, tired from the task of relentless pressure from too many self-aided squeezes in effort comfort and keep me together. Hands, decorated with fingernail and teeth marks, from all the fists they have been balled into. Lungs sore from the heaving screeches and screams muffled by sopping pillows, pleading with the throat for a reprieve. Stomach, twisted in knots of confusion at the amounts of food and sweets consumed in efforts of mental stabilization.  Hips, knees, ankles, and feet all sore and seemingly filled with sand, aching, dull. The action of movement proving to be almost too much for them to bear._

_Then, there’s the heart, an entity all its own. It begs for the relief of past kings, a single chop of a blade to the neck and no more did the world they have to face. Instead, it sits, throbbing, pounding, scratched and bleeding while it begs for mercy. At least, when creatures from Lucifer's domain themselves take a stake to the heart, it is their last. My heart, however, twists and begs for relief. Words and condolences from loved ones and others alike play the roll of bandages, patching up the bleeding and the tears. For a moment, that is. Until the thoughts and emotions come back. The bandages are torn off with agonizing slow motions, taking more flesh in their wake and leaving the weak, real and imaginative, organ to writhe. Then the process is repeated, again and again till the whole body is praying, praying for a death that only the reaper can give. Not the death from the bottle or the pill, but real death. Death without afterlife or consequences. Yet, death never pays a visit but instead sends his cousin, pain. It is a pain that visits my bedside with pets and jabs. Death never comes yet it seems as if pain is here to stay._

“Lord Kirkland, there are people here to see you.” 

The voice jolted the Empire from his misery. Staring down at the ink drying on parchment he looked up at the messenger. It was just after supper, which he had once again turned down. England would not be surprised if the cook had simply stopped making his portions. These days he only had stomach for one single meal, and often he threw up what little he ate. It was soon. Soon he would have to sail to Paris to watch the ratification. At least Matthew was here in London to keep everyone busy. 

“Tell them that I am not taking visitors this evening. Tell them I apologize, but I find myself under the weather.” he muttered. An uncomfortable silence filled the room before the servant bowed and closed the door behind him. England stared at the desk in front of him. He was so tired. So sick of everything. Hunching forward in his chair he heaved a sigh, straightening when a key next to his quill caught his attention. Yes, that would help the exhaustion. Picking up the instrument carefully he bent over to unlock the drawer that was at his right hip.

Fighting with the stubborn lock for a brief moment, he let out a grunt of approval when it gave way. Pulling out the drawer he scanned the collection of quills, inkwells and excess parchment, all situated around a single bottle.  A large bottle at that. Lifting it from the drawer, England closed and locked the drawer once more, rolling the bottle between his fingertips. 

Yes, that would help him sleep, for a good long while. Laudanum. Enhanced with Magic. Yes, that would certainly help. 

Placing the key once more in its place on the desk he shrugged out of his coat, careful of the bottle he began to undress. Nothing but the shuffling and whispers of fabric filled the room as England prepared for bed. Reaching for his nightshirt, he pulled it over his head with half-hearted tugs when the thick white fabric caught his hair. There we go. The servants would be in later to douse the candles.

Pulling back the covers on his bed with one hand he sized up the bottle again. Yes, that would help. Sitting on the bed carefully he wiggled the cork out of the bottle top. "Cheers." he announced flatly to the empty room, pressing the bottle to his lips he tipped his head back.  A whole bottle of magic strengthened laudanum would help him right along.

*** 

_September 3, 1783_

_Paris, France_

_Hotel d’York_

America thought that France would be here. Not that this was his peace treaty at all. In fact, he’d actively created a problem for it in the months after Yorktown. Being swiftly abandoned had been a surprise as France had immediately taken his navy to harry British holdings in the West Indies. He’d taken several islands, America knew, while Spain was busy doing the same and taking West Florida. 

America shifted, hooking his fingers in the elaborate knot tied at his throat. France hadn’t betrayed him, not exactly. What he had done was violate the spirit of the treaty, especially when he started negotiating a separate peace. He was supposed to be on his side, but he’d taken his own. Maybe that was the way things had to be. It wasn’t particularly fair though. Ultimately, they had worked something out with England in the end. Spain had a few problems with it, as did France, but that would have to wait. After all, England had already made peace with France.

Today, it was time to make peace between him and England.

Waiting for the British delegation to arrive wore on him. He knew that England had arrived, France had put him in Versailles. He’d offered a spot to America too, but he’d refused. He didn’t really want to talk to France right now. Not when he was about to make official what they’d done two years ago. England was going to give him his independence. It would be real. They would both be nations.

Equals.

He’d not laid eyes on England in two years. What would he think of him now? The hotel that had been chosen was in a fashionable part of Paris. It was serious. It felt important that it would be a separate place than France’s palace. It may be France’s soil, but this was his space. It was going to be historic because of him, because of what he’d accomplished.

America picked up the paper, ignoring the raised eyebrows from his delegation. He wanted to read it over one more time.

_Blah, blah, blah,_ America thought, reading over the titles that were laid around King George’s name. He took up several lines of the document! He skipped over them, finding the terms that set off on the rest. 

_...to forget all past Misunderstandings and Differences that have unhappily interrupted the good Correspondence and Friendship which they mutually wish to restore; and to establish such beneficial and satisfactory intercourse between the two countries upon the ground of reciprocal Advantages and mutual Convenience as may promote and secure to both perpetual Peace and Harmony..._

America thought that sounded good. He knew that England’s people saw his as valuable trading partners. It was why they were giving him so much. He could feel it now, the edges of his boundary straining against their old holdings. He was about to grow in size. He could feel it in the ache of his bones. It just had to be made official and he would stretch all the way to the Mississippi. It meant taking some land that England had claimed for Canada... but it wasn’t like Canada had occupied it alone.

He skipped over the names of all of the men who would ultimately sign. 

_Article 1st. His Brittanic Majesty acknowledges that the said United States... to be free sovereign and Independent States._

America beamed with pride to see the old words reflected back. Free. Independent. It was settled the first thing. The second article laid out his boundaries. It only needed a signature. He wondered if it would show in his body, once he gained that space. Would England notice?

The treaty continued. He’d still be able to fish off Canada’s coasts. They would pay their own debts. It would be recommended to the States that they should give back confiscated property to the Loyalists and that his government wouldn’t claim anymore. That they would have peace and release each other’s people. They would share the Mississippi. They would give back territories that were captured after the treaty was begun. That Congress and Parliament would ratify it. 

It was what pretty much everything he wanted. The only thing England had turned down was America taking Canada with him. America sat the paper back down. If Canada did show up, America planned on throwing him out. One of England’s ambassadors had offered him up at the end of the war and America had been keen on the idea. They were brothers, they should be together! Canada would still be British America, even after the treaty was signed. That didn’t mean that he deserved a spot here. 

He paced the room, back and forth. He knew it was annoying Mr. Adams and he could see Dr. Franklin looking at him over the rim of his spectacles. “America, sit down.” said John Jay, pulling out one of the chairs. America shook his head and the men gave up. 

America glanced at the mantle clock. Any minute now.

The sound of the knock and then a door opening and a servant ushering people inside made America’s heart leap into his throat.

***

Canada heaved a sigh, clutching England’s forearm. He had found England starting on his decanter of port and staring out into the gardens. Bags hung beneath the nations eyes, high cheekbones more prominent than ever. Prince George had been sending him messages, Arthur hadn’t been eating or sleeping and after the laudanum incident he had demanded that he be there for this. The weather over the country had been uncomfortably stagnant. Matthew had been worried that his presence would cause England undue stress but rather, the empire had rarely let Matthew leave his side. 

At least Canada had arrived in time to put the stopper in. If he hadn’t found the island empire drinking he would have suggested it, his caretaker would be better for it. And it was much better than the last bottle he had found in the nation's possession. His grip tightened as diplomats kept their gazes on everything but the pair. Silence swelled within the hall, only footsteps and the uncomfortable shuffle of feet against stone.  

At least the incident had been restricted to a limited group. Swallowing, Canada warred with himself over what to do as they approached the tall wooden doors at the end of the hall. A singular chair was pushed against the stone wall and it gave him an idea. Dammit. It had taken them awhile to get to the room, his brother was probably inside.

“Arthur,” He peered down at the other blonde, “Would you mind waiting? There is a chair for you. I just want to go in and make sure that they have the room ready for everything.” Canada deflated slightly as the only response he received was a tired nod and compliance. Matthew sighed, but offered a small smile before pushing against the door, opening it just enough to slip inside. He had been right, America was inside. “Good afternoon, Alfred.” he said quietly as he brother stood up. He watched the other blond’s face change expressions quickly.

America stopped pacing when the door opened, face sliding into a frown. He stepped around the table and grabbed Canada by the arm, yanking him away from the diplomats that were watching the pair of them. “If he sent you in his place I will march up to Versailles and drag him down here.” America said, jaw clenching. 

“America.” Canada frowned, yanking his arm from his brother's grasp with a frown. Dang, his strength was getting worse. “He is sitting in the hall, I wanted to make sure that everything was ready before I brought him in here. I don’t want him in here longer than necessary. The Crown Prince wants him exposed to as few stressors as possible.” He searched his brothers face. America was tense, not angry, but certainly not pleased with the current situation.

“The Crown Prince can mind his own business.” America muttered. He looked at Canada, shrugging. “Of course I’m ready. I’ve been waiting for this for a long time.”

Matthew stared at America in annoyance. “I am certain that a few minutes more won’t hurt you.” he said flatly, crossing his arms. “It's been a rough morning. I figured that you would have a little bit of sympathy since the incident. It takes a bit to bounce back, even for a nation I suspect.” he added quietly.

“I’m fine.” America said. “He’s known about this for two years! We’ve been negotiating by letter for months! It’s not like he doesn’t know what he’s signing over. Go get him. I want this done with.” America crossed his arms, exasperation crossing his face. Both brothers looked at each other, their bodies mirroring the other.  

Matthew stared at him in disbelief.  “You have always been stubborn but I didn’t think you callus America!” He shook his head “I was certain that after France spoke with you that you would at least have the patience to work at a more respectable pace.”

“France isn’t a part of this anymore. They made their own peace.” America said. “Canada, please, I need him to come in and do this.” He reached out for Canada again, gripping him by the shoulder, not out of anger this time, but pleading. “I want him to look me in the eye when I become a nation.”

“France isn’t…” Amethyst eyes widened. “He...he didn't tell you?” Matthew whispered horrified. 

“Tell me what?”

Canada looked around, nervous. “America. Listen to me.” he said slowly, “I cannot believe that no one informed you. Master Adams, Dr. Franklin? I was certain they had been informed about the delicacy of the situation right now.” 

“It’s delicate because he’s been dragging his heels for two years.” Canada reached out, gripping him hard around the forearm. His fingers dug into America’s coat sleeve, America looked down. What was going on?

Matthew gestured around the room. “About all of this... England... because all of this... England…” He inhaled, swallowing.  “I am... Alfred... Alfred...because of all of this... Arthur tried to kill himself.”

America stared at him, arms loosening. The words didn’t seem right. Nations couldn’t just end themselves. “I don’t understand. What do you mean?” Canada opened his mouth, no words, just trying to figure out what more to say. America brushed past him. He’d said England was just outside the door, right? He could hear Canada behind him, telling him to stop. Grabbing onto his sleeve trying to hold him inside but he wasn’t strong enough. America pushed through the door, Canada squeezing through as he closed it behind him. Humans on one side. Nations on the other. He could see England there, sitting in the chair, his head lowered. He was staring at his hands. America edged closer. To him, England felt like a grenade, one where the wick had burned out and one couldn’t be sure if the powder had gotten wet or if it was likely to explode. 

“England.” America said. He still didn’t move. America thought about kneeling, moving into England’s eyeline. But he wasn’t going to kneel in front of England, no matter what he’d done to himself. Instead, he put a hand on his shoulder. He wanted to shake him, make him see sense. Tried to kill himself? He couldn’t believe it. “Are you sure you’re England, you’re not acting like him at all.” he said, adding a little humor to his voice. If he could get England to look at him, even if it was in anger, that was at least something.

Matthew followed Alfred from the room, hot on his heels. Dammit, of course he would try to talk to Arthur. Shaking his head he took a deep breath. “Arthur. I think we should go inside now. The meeting should start soon.” Matthew laid his hand on the empire’s arm, shooting an angry look at his brother. England continued to stare down at his hands, eyes flicking to the polished boots in front of him. The island nation took deep breath, exhaling slowly. 

“Excuse us, United States. We shall meet you inside.” he stood up quickly, stiffly. He allowed Matthew to lead him to the room. 

“Don’t be late America.” Matthew said flatly ,all but pulling the other into the room. He would speak with Alfred later. This would not drag out any longer than it had to.

America frowned after him. Canada didn’t have to be here at all, this had nothing to do with him. Not for lack of trying of course. If only England’s ambassador had kept his word. Canada wouldn’t be standing next to England right now. He’d be standing next to him.

Damn it! Why was he thinking about Canada! He should be talking to England. Back in the room, he stepped over towards Mr. Adams, who was frowning at Canada’s presence as well. “Can you get him out of here?” America said, when he walked past him. He could see that Canada wasn’t going to listen to him, when did he get so pushy?! America sat down next to Dr. Franklin, the old man peering at him over his spectacles.

Mr. Adams cleared his throat, casting an appraising glance at the two diplomats on the other side of the table. “Excuse me, Mr. Hartley, Mr. Oswald. As this signing of the treaty is between the United States of America and the United Kingdom of Great Britain is it really appropriate for a colony to be here? Especially one that should, by right of proximity, belong to the United States. However, as we have been generous in our terms in regards to Canada... Do you wish to insult us by parading him in front of our delegation?”

The British representatives looked uncomfortable. Canada stared at America, his look hard. 

“I will only remain in this negotiation if Canada stays.” England spoke up. Thanking the Canadian he took a seat. “I have been immensely ill as of late I would prefer to have the strength and support of a family member as I deal with a room of foreign delegations.” England’s tone was firm. He looked up across the table at Adams. “If you wish to complete these negotiations in a respectable measure of time than I suggest allowances be made for my family member.” He clasped his hands over the chair arms, his last request not a request at all. A term of the treaty now. The tension in the room thickened. 

“Are you kidding me? Foreign?” America stood up, shoving the paper across the table. “Sign that and then I’ll be foreign!” 

America wanted to hit him, shake him, whatever it would take to get him back to normal. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He placed both hands on the table, trying to keep them from shaking. He looked at England, at the thinness of his face, the paleness of his skin. He looked frail in a way America had never seen before. If England hadn’t been so stubborn... if he’d listened... if he’d... so many things could have gone differently. Now England had the gall to act like America had done this to him. They were in this together. England was going to take some responsibility.

“This isn’t a negotiation anymore. Just sign the treaty.” he said, the rest of what he wanted to say could wait until they were alone, when Canada wasn’t hovering by England’s elbow. If England wanted to scream, yell, anything else, he would give as good as he got. England stared at the parchment lying on the polished surface of the table. The dark ink scrawling the words of their arrangement. The arrangement that would recognize his sovereignty. Just these signatures and then it would be ratified. “Sign the paper, England.” he said. England lay a hand on top of the paper, as though he were trying to feel the words rather than read them.

“Yes foreign.” England repeated the nation's words back at him before gesturing for a quill. He didn’t need to read the document, he knew what the disgusting thing said. “And please, while we may be agreeing to amity between our governments, you and I are not on amicable terms so do refrain from using such familiar language when addressing me, Sir.” He blinked, once, twice and then his shoulders stiffened, as if coming to a dissatisfying conclusion. Taking the quill handed to him with a soft thank you, England rolled the quill between his fingers for but a second before signing the document with no movements to spare, tapping the quill at the end of the signature with an air of finality.  

Gesturing for the document and quill to be taken England stood up, eyes finally falling on the blond nation across the table from him. Hand resting over the coat buttons at his waist he nodded. Eyes, green as the island he represented, focused on America. “Foreign relations.” he repeated cooly. “I introduce myself, The United Kingdom of Great Britain, to the United States of America.” Pressing his lips tight he fell silent for a moment. “It is always a day for the books when one nation meets another. Dealings with strangers is akin to treading open waters. For that is what you are to me, Sir. A stranger.”

America stared at him, words flowing through his mind, but none coming to his lips. How could he do this? Treat him this way after all that they’d been through. Just like that, England was going to pretend that they didn’t know each other. As if England wasn’t sure if America was going to cheat him in trade or some other such nonsense. The paper slid back across the table and America picked up his own quill. He could smell the wax heating, the diplomats waiting to affix their seals and make the document official. 

He looked at England, trying to see some hint of the person that he would sit on the shore and wait for, hoping for a glimpse of white sails on the horizon. He didn’t even see the nation that ignored him, demeaned him, threatened him with total destruction.

This wasn’t the England that he knew. 

America looked away, down at the paper that made it all real. The war would officially be done. He would be free. He signed, passing it to the others. Signatures, seals. He watched England through it all, holding his gaze. England wanted a response, America could see it in the furrow between his eyebrows. 

“You can take this literally all you want. ‘Forget all past misunderstandings and differences’ and all that. I’m not going to forget.” he said, feeling that agitated energy rising again. He stood up straight, pulling himself to his full height. He felt broader in the shoulder, his jacket suddenly too tight. “You won’t be able to look away from me forever. I’m going to make sure of that.”

Running his tongue over his teeth, England watched America as he spoke. By the end of the new nation’s impromptu speech he was shaking his in amusement. “I have heard those words before, boy.” He sized America up, was he always that tall? “If you’re going to make such a grandiose statement to me, of all nations in the world, I suggest you follow through.” His lip curled before pasting a smile to face. “Now I take it we are done here.” he said shortly. His diplomats returned to their feet and fled the room. Turning to look at Canada with a brow raised in question, the colony nodded quickly, color rising in his cheeks. 

“Yes. I was informed just before we entered the room.” Matthew nodded. “Vicente was directed to be in your guest chambers for the evening unless otherwise i-informed.” 

He gave a small smile as England patted his shoulder. “Good job Matthew.” He smiled praising the boy before taking a deep breath, continuing to look at him as he said, “Oh, dear me. I must apologize, for it seems you already lost my eyes, my attentions, United States, that did not take long at all did it?” 

America tore through things that he could say. England was trying to hurt him, inflict any kind of wound he could. Make America feel small. A facade. If what Canada had said was true... it was a defense. He called France names all the time, but they were still... well, not friends, but whatever it was they were. 

America could hear the humans shuffling out. The doors closed behind them with a soft click. It was just the three of them now. America stepped around the table, coming closer to England’s smug face. Canada slid into the space between them, but America could still see England over his shoulder. 

“America don’t.” hissed Canada, trying to stop him from coming any closer.

“I’m not going to hurt him.”

“You already--”

“Canada.” America interrupted. The two brothers stared at each other, the message was silent, but he knew that Canada understood. _I need to talk to him._ Canada looked torn, tearing his gaze away from America’s to look at England. America did too, England was determinedly not looking at him again. He looked at the floor, the walls, the furniture, as though America were a stain that he needed to politely ignore for the sake of decency. The desire to punch him in the face rose again, but then he remembered what Canada had told him. 

England tried to end his life, even though they couldn’t die. A knock on the door broke the smothering silence. Mr. Oswald put his head back into the room, “Forgive me, but I need to speak to Mr. Williams for a moment.”

Canada lay a hand on England’s arm. “I’ll be right back. Why don’t you sit.” He took him by the elbow as if he were an old man, guiding him into the chair. He looked at America one more time, his look pleading. _Don’t hurt him._

_I won’t._

The door closed behind him leaving America and England in the room. The air seemed stagnant, smothering. America tugged at his cravat, trying to loosen the folds of fabric that were too tightly wound around his neck. 

“You’re wearing the French style.” England said. America turned and looked at him.

“I didn’t think homespun would be all that appropriate,” he said, “Although it would probably be more comfortable.” Small talk. It felt strange. After all that England implied before, America decided to go along with it. Wait for a chance to ask. 

Crossing his arms England stared at the long table in the middle of the meeting room. Ankles crossing the nation sat rigidly against the back of the chair. “Is there a reason that you are staying inside of the room?” England sighed, crossing his arms. For a brief moment he continued to stare at the table, finally he turned his eyes on the new nation. “Is there?”

“Well, for one, this is the place _I_ have rented. I’m sure Canada will take you back to Versailles.” America pulled out one of the vacated chairs and sat down. England was seated on the adjacent side, if America stretched out his foot he would kick England’s shoe. “I also wanted to ask you something.”

England’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

“Why did you do it?”

“Do what?” England’s nose wrinkled as he scowled. “Brought Matthew in here? The taxes? Tried to show you that you were wrong?” Gloved hands fisted in the the folds of his arms. “Specifics would be nice Al-America.”

America watched him, seeing the lines in his body tense. America rubbed his hands along his thighs, rubbing at the fabric for a moment. He should put it delicately, but hadn’t he already tried? “Why’d you try to end your existence?” 

“Excuse me!?” England stared at the boy, eyes widening in horror. “How the hell did you find out about that!?” He leaned forward quickly, fingers curling around the edges of the chair’s arms. “That's none of your business!” his expression hardened. “It’s personal. Only close relations are aware of the situation.” 

“Well, I guess that makes me a close relation.” America replied. He crossed his arms himself, shifting in his chair. He could see the sweat glisten on England’s skin. “I guess... if you don’t want to tell me, that’s... fine. I just... I don’t want to exist in a world without you. I...” _Love you. Hate you. Want you. Need you._ He bit his lip. The idea of it hit him then, if England had managed to disappear, if he’d been replaced with someone else. It was impossible, but he’d tried anyway. What would he be without him? No future he’d envisioned for his independence had not had England in it. _I want you to see me England. We are equals now. I love you, you can be... we can be... I don’t want you to be gone. I want us to be allies. I don’t want you to be so unhappy. Can’t you see how great this is? We’re equals and you tried to end everything. Why?_ The despair at that idea choked him, crushing the words in his throat. It was too much to think about. He looked up, seeing England watching him back. _I love you. See me. Want me back. I... I... I..._ Something, anything needed to come out of his mouth. “I... really need you to buy my goods.”

“You-” England snorted. “Close relation?” He chuckled, leaning back. “You signed that document. And if I remember correctly you said that once you signed that treaty you were a foreign relation.” he said quietly. “So no, the laudanum has nothing to do with you. Nothing. To. Do. With. You.” His upper lip curled. “And goods? As if you don’t know how to run to others. France? Prussia? Spain?” He shook his head. “If you want to talk goods then that is to be done in front of diplomats, scribes.”  England clasped his hands together, leaning into America’s space, emerald searching ocean blue. “You wanted to be a nation. One of the big boys, and you would stop at nothing else to get it. You would do anything to get your way.” He shook his head, grinning. “At least you got the ruthless part of being a nation down.” He exhaled slowly. “What more could you want?”

America didn’t believe him for a moment. What else had really changed? “You’re right, I am a nation.” He leaned closer, England wasn’t going to intimidate him. Not anymore. He could feel England’s breath on his skin. “You ask what more I could want? I have my independence now and I want everything. I’m going to stretch from sea to shining sea. I’m going to explore all of the places you never let me. I’m not done changing the world yet. I told you before, you’re not going to be able to look away from me forever. You have to be around to see it.”

“I have to?” He shook his head  “You lost the right to dictate, suggest, whatever you want to call it. You lost that right when the changeling took over the crib. What I do is none of your business, I suggest that you remember that.” The right side of his mouth raised as if he wanted to smile. “I know America…but that boy died. I don’t know who The United States of America is...and I'll decide how much I want to know.” He searched his eyes. “An gcloiseann tú mé?” _Do you hear me?_

Leaning forward slowly the empire paused, as if debating. Before America was aware of what the other nation was doing England had pulled away. It could mean nothing or it could mean everything. A small kiss to the corner of someone's mouth. It was like the touch of a ghost, that brief touch. America wanted to catch it, press it against his skin, but not while England was watching. _I hear you._

England got to his feet. “Well, as you said you were the one who rented this room. Since that is the case then I shall take my leave.”

He opened his mouth, but the door opened so abruptly he forgot what he was going to say. “Arthur, we should be getting back to the palace. You still have to meet with France and Spain. Their treaties are ready for you.” 

England turned, walking towards Canada. America was used to seeing his back. And one of these days he was certain he was going to make England turn around. Face him. Look into his eyes and understand. “England, you should keep watch.” he said, turning away, picking up the treaty carefully on the table. He ran his fingers over the page, this was just the beginning. He turned around, just as the door was closing behind the others. “You’ll see.” 

***

“I hope whoever refuses to cease with that incessant knocking realizes that we are in France and that they utilize the guillotine here.” England sighed, his forehead dropping onto a golden shoulder. “And France owes me a favor or two.”

“And you wouldn’t mind calling in those favors? I’m sure there would be strings attached.” A warm accent that always reminded England of sunshine responded, laughing. “I shall answer it then, leaving blood on the carpet would display terrible manners.” Rolling out of the bed Portugal shrugged into his trousers, buttoning and lacing them up with expertise. 

Pulling at the blankets that had slid to the floor England flopped back into the pillows with a shrug, grabbing the scotch on the bedside table. Holding up the small glass Arthur watched the flames from the candle on the nightstand flicker oddly in the amber liquid. What he really wanted was a moment alone, though he knew that was happening no time soon. Not since the laundanam incident. He wasn’t supposed to have woken up, he was supposed to have passed the torch to a new personified nation. Instead he had woken up to shouting doctors, nurses and spatterings of the royal family, all in a panic.

Apparently, they had tried to wake him for an hour. Catherine stood in the corner, clutching the now empty bottle to her chest as George stood beside her, hands fisted in his hair. Why had it mattered? He had failed and let a colony slip through his fingers, he had not had such a failure in as long as he could remember. Not against Roma Antiqua, Scotland, Spain, none of them. Wouldn't it be better for a nation without transgressions to take the helm? Resting his head against the headboard he exhaled slowly, controlling, before he took a drink of scotch. It was lukewarm, his nose wrinkled in distaste, he really preferred scotch iced. Eyes shifted to the Portuguese man walking across the room, pulling long brown hair back with a cord

Padding across the room, feet making no sound on the carpet, Vicente unlocked the door, languidly slumping against the door frame “Oh garoto, olha quem está aqui.” Vicente smiled at someone. Looking over his shoulder he smiled. “Arthur, you have a visitor”

“I thought I was quite clear that I would be taking no one else this evening besides you and Matthew. And no I don’t care who it is.” The Portuguese nation nodded at the curt response. 

***

“Well, you heard the captain, America.” Vicente shrugged, grinning at the younger nation on the other side of the door. “I guess you shall have to come back tomorrow. He is kinda busy.” peering down the hall and seeing no one down either side he thrust his hand forward. “Nice to finally meet you.” he said quietly. “I am Vicente, Portugal.”

America had been a little taken aback when the door opened and the person there was completely new. Not to mention in a state of undress that was unseemly. It would never have flown back home. He tried to stay focused on his face, even though he could feel his cheeks heating up with embarrassment. If anything, he’d expected Canada at the door. That the noise England had made about a meeting was just for show, or just a human. But Vicente... was Portugal. Where was that again? He tried to picture Europe in his head. Right, he was right next to Spain, they’d shared a kingdom once, right? He isn’t that far from England. The connection slipped into place. “Portugal like Port, the wine. England stopped buying French wine...” He trailed off, he needed to stay focused. “Well, I suppose it’s nice to meet you too, is England in there? I really need to talk to him.”

“No introduction?” Portugal dropped his hand with a frown. He shook his head “England is not having visitors tonight. I am pretty sure that you just heard that.” He crossed his arms with a shrug. “Captain’s orders. I can take a message but you need to come back in the morning kiddo.”

“Uh, sorry, I’ve been a little distracted.” America held out his hand and Portugal took it, albeit with a less genial look than before. “I’m America, which I guess you already knew that.” He tried to step into the room, regardless, but Portugal blocked his path.

“I’m sorry.”

“England! I need to talk to you. It’s important!” he said, raising his voice. England was in there, Portugal had glanced back into the room. He did it again now. America turned back to Portugal, looking him in the eye. “I know you don’t know me, but it’s... You control Brazil, right? I don’t know him, but I doubt you’d be happy if England was keeping him from you.”

Portugal frowned “Probably not, but like you said you don’t know him. I know England and right now he said he doesn't want to see anyone. So you will not be seeing him. If _meu querido_ does not wish to see you then that is that.” Portugal straightened looking back into the room, long fingers gripping the door. Fluent Portuguese spat back and forth between Portugal and England. The brunette winced as there was the sound of glass shattering as it hit the wall. Portugal turned back to face America. “Like I said, come back in the morning.” Eyes narrowing slightly his expression hardened. “I really don’t need to spend anymore time out here. He is impatient.” He opened his mouth again as if to continue but stopped, the sound of footsteps on the floor. He pushed the door open with a smile. “ _Inglaterra_.”  

“What?!” Messy haired and frowning England appeared in the doorway. Unlike his counterpart he had at least donned an unbuttoned shirt. England glared at him from just inside the doorway. America took in his appearance, shirt open at the throat. Bare shins and bare feet from the bottom of his breeches that were loosely hanging from his hips. “Vicente told you to leave, I am sure that you know what that means?”

“I...” America looked between them and it all came together, exactly what sort of activity he had interrupted. _Surely you know of such fondnesses..._ France’s words sputtered through his head. The heat deepened in his cheeks and he tried to keep any expression off his face. He turned away, not saying anything else and took deliberate steps away. One, two, ten, slow down, eleven, twelve, turn down the next hallway. England was... was... America slipped down the hall and slammed his hand into the first breakable thing he came across. The shattered porcelain vase dripped water onto the tabletop, the flowers falling in a shatter of reds and whites. America grabbed one, a red rose, and crushed it in his fingers. 

“America...” He jumped at the voice, turning to look at Canada.

“Don’t sneak up on me.” America said, his voice muffled by how tightly he held his jaw. He shoved at the mess he’d made of the glass, rocking the wood and sending some of the shards tinkling to the floor. Canada watched him, approaching slowly.

“I didn’t. I was coming down the hallway when you nearly ran me over.”

“I didn’t see you.” 

Canada sighed. He reached out slowly, taking America’s hand. “You cut yourself. Come on, I’ll get you a bandage.”

America took two steps to follow him. “Wait, are you allowed to go places with me anymore?”

“England did not explicitly say I couldn’t. Therefore, I can act with a certain degree of flexibility.”

“You’re just not going to tell him.”

“I’m just not going to tell him.” Canada replied, matching America’s smile with a small one of his own. America followed him to his rooms, they weren’t far away. They went inside and Canada called for some clean linen. He got America to sit by the fire while he fetched the wash basin. America held it in his lap while Canada washed the small, neat cuts all over his palm. He winced as Canada plucked out a piece of glass.

“Did you know?” Canada looked up at him, a question in his gaze. “That he was sleeping with Portugal?”

“It’s not exactly something anyone goes about announcing... I gather that he’s been close with Portugal for a long time. America... he’s...”

“What? Not the only one? I mean, we both know about him and France, but that was a long time ago.” Canada didn’t say anything. “Right?”

“He... came into my rooms last night... well, from France’s.”

“What was he doing in your room?” 

“Passing out drunk if you must know.” America didn’t want to believe any of it. England had tried to end his existence and now he was burning through lovers, past and present. Hanover... that was another one, Prussia’s brother. The lands England’s recent kings had come from. How many others were there? Canada came back, taking America’s hand out of the water and wiping it dry. “France was right...”

“France needs to stop talking about me, some ally he is...”

“You’re still in love with England?”

“I never said that I loved him.” _Aloud anyway..._ “How can I love a guy like that? He shows up to a treaty signing drunk after having sex all night only to do it again with someone else? Who does he think he is?” The words came pouring out. It was easier to be angry at him. 

Canada wrapped his hand in silence, not saying a word. They sat in silence, Canada brooding, America could feel it. He shifted, moving the pink-stained water to the floor so that he could pull Canada closer. He hesitated, but then he came. There wasn’t a lot of room, but they managed to lean together on the couch, Canada laying his arm over America’s shoulders so he could lean over. Canada rested his chin on the top of America’s head.

“I have to ask you something.” Canada said.

“I can’t promise I’ll answer.”

“Did you sleep with France?” America was quiet. “I was really angry at first, but the more I thought about it...”

“I didn’t. I mean, he kissed me... but no, I don’t love him.” His ear pressed against Canada’s chest he heard the release of breath like a roar. “Does England think that?”

“Everyone thinks that.”

“Don’t tell them otherwise. It’s just between us.” 

Canada was quiet for a moment, his arm tightening around America’s shoulder. “Okay.” he said. 

America shifted, this wasn’t as comfortable as it used to be. He leaned up, pulling away. Getting to his feet. It wasn’t the same. Nothing was. “I’m going home.”

***

“That was a little harsh don't you think, _Inglaterra_?” Vicente closed the door after watching as the American walked stiffly down the hall and around the corner. 

“No, not at all.” England shrugged out of the shirt, draping it over the foot of the bed. “You told the boy that I was not taking visitors, you told him more than once that, and yet he still pushed. Persistence does not always pay off.” Pale, nimble fingers undid the buttons of his trousers. 

“But still-”

“Vicente!” England glared at the nation. “I want as little to do with the brat. Did you want to be friendly, cordial with Antonio when you separated?” 

“Well, no-”

“And did Spain wish to talk to you? Does he still want to talk to you?”

“Well, no-” 

“Then why the hell would I want to talk to America? Have I not been civil enough by holding my tongue and not screaming at the boy? By minding my own business and keeping my distance so as not to say something with the influence of spirits or my injured temper? What more could America want? Forgiveness? For me to cook him supper and take him to the fairy rings? He was the one who severed our ties once he decided to rebel.” He dropped his trousers to the floor and scooted into the bed. Pulling the blankets up beneath his arms he flopped back into the bed with a sigh. 

“You could give him a chance?” Portugal perched on the edge of the bed. “What happened between the two of you, it’s not the same as what has happened to us with unions before.”

“I talked with him.” England muttered, rolling over, turning his back to the other man. “I spoke with him at the meeting, after the meeting. He did not say anything, except for the fact that he wants to rule the world. And that was that. He told me that because he needed me for trade... that I was more useful to him alive than dead.” England leered at the heavy curtains covering the windows as he was met with silence. “Exactly, so why should I bother speaking with him, huh? Trade negotiations are to be done in official meetings so since me being alive is only good for trade then speaking with one another in my private quarters is out of the question. And it _wasn’t_ a union.”

“Arthur…”

“I don’t wish to speak of this anymore.” England refused to look away from the wall. Tense silence filled the room, followed by darkness as the candles were capped. The other side of the bed sank, Vicente crawling into the bed beside him. No more words filled the room, and England gave silent thanks as the other nation kept his distance. Curling in on himself England counted his breaths.  Everything had changed, nothing was the same. Swallowing, the empire prayed for sleep, it was all so confusing, it hurt. What was there left to do? What could he do? Those were questions for the sunlight. 

***

The room where they’d signed the treaty felt changed. The rooms were darkened, returning so late in the evening. Only the light from the flickering candle in his hand threw light on the table where the paper had lain, the chair where England had sat. A bit of wax was stuck to the polished surface. America scraped at it with his fingernail. Sitting the candle down, he pulled out a chair and sat, watching the flickering of the light on the walls of the room. Each little bit of polished wood, paint, wallpaper, brass furnishing, every little bit of it said he wasn’t home. 

The way they all looked at him was so very different now.

He’d seen it in Spain’s eyes when he’d seen him just a few days before, and France’s too. Some nations that he’d noticed, but didn’t get their names. Sizing him up. No doubt wondering what they could get. Was it all like that? Just a long line of people wondering if he would fail? He felt the table dig into his elbows as he lay his chin on his hands. 

_Free and Independent States._

There was nothing he couldn’t do now. No one could tell him otherwise. That thought made him smile. He could have an actual navy. He could print his own money. Take out credit. Trade with whatever interesting countries he came across. Explore. America thought about the mountains, the Ohio River Valley, the Mississippi, further west. That was where the future lay, in those vast forests and unexplored rivers. He would find the headwaters, know the nooks and vales that lay beyond. Now he could meet the nations to the west. There were others he could talk to, without England interfering. 

He lay his head down on the table, watching the candle wax drip and pool. The world could change, be melted down and reformed like wax. He reached forward, touching the soft shape, it was hot, burning his fingertip, but the print was made. He’d made a mark. 

“No one is ever going to be able to forget me.”

The next morning he made his way to the docks, grateful that there was a merchant ship already scheduled to depart. He couldn’t wait to be home, get out of France and get to work in his own home.

“You are leaving so soon, _mon lapin,_ I thought you would be more interested in celebrating.” France said, leaning idly by the dockside. He’d come to bid America farewell, after the hastily scrawled note he’d sent off that morning. America stood with his hands in his pockets, warming his hands against the crisp air coming off the sea.

“I have things to do.”

“You have nations to avoid.” said France, shrugging his shoulders. “Considering how many contracts your people are leaving here with in regards to a certain island, I find your plan highly suspect.”

“Well, I need money. And I have lots of ideas of what to do with it.” France chuckled. “What?” America asked, tilting his head in question. 

“Your dreams are still so lofty! It seems even your own sovereignty cannot temper them.” France stepped forward and put his hands on America’s shoulders, planting a kiss on each cheek before the younger nation could protest. “I suppose I should bid you farewell, you leave me here with so much gloom!”

“I’m sure you’ll find ways to be entertained. You’ll have to let me know about how that hot air balloon that can carry people works out. Wouldn’t it be so amazing to be able to fly?” America said. 

“I think soaring like the birds might take a few more centuries, yet, if it is even possible.”

“Don’t be mad when I figure it out before you.” France rolled his eyes and waved him off. America grinned and walked up the gangplank and onto the ship. He felt better already. 

The ship was doing its final preparations to cast off when he saw him. France’s back was easy enough to spot, he was easily the most colorful person on the docks that early in the morning. He’d paused, talking to two people. America recognized England immediately, his eyebrows raised at whatever France was saying, Portugal standing by his side, laughing at something with France. 

As the ship began to push off, America saw England turn, look towards him. For a brief moment, he nodded.

America watched until he couldn’t see him at all anymore.

England wasn’t looking away after all.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've come to the end of We Hold These Truths! We are so amazed to have created this lengthy work and really appreciate all of you who have come along for the ride! 
> 
> Shadows Fall Behind, Book 3 in the Collision of Worlds Series, will be coming in the next few weeks! We're really excited to dive into the 18th century because it is basically the creation of the modern world (for both good and bad). The maturity rating is likely to go up for this next one due to the historical events and the relationships between our characters. Stay tuned! Keep an eye out for the side story about Canada and France's relationship coming out soon as well!
> 
> If you enjoyed our story please let us know with a comment or a kudo! We may not always get a chance to respond, but we read every one and they always make our day, even if there is constructive criticism involved!

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! So thanks for reading our story. There is going to possibly be a couple of weeks break before chapter 19, at least until the end of the University Semester. Between work and preparing for finals, all the paper writing for the history major, this story is going to have to be put on the backburner. But don't fret it will start up again! Thanks for subscribing and for your patience!.  
> Otaku.


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